The Highwayman
by Sophia Night
Summary: "Have you ever looked into the eyes of Death, lad?" she whispered, staring intently into my face. All I could manage in response was a miserable whimper. "Well, I have," she continued, "they were greyish blue and beautiful, and if the Devil exists, I pray he'll let me look into them once more. Now, will you hear my story?" Butch Cavendish/OC
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I do not own The Lone Ranger or any of its characters._

**Chapter 1**

"D'you really want to hear the story, boy?" she whispered, eying me with a suspicious look from behind an unkempt lock of silver-grey hair.

My palms were uncomfortably sweaty. The air was hot and damp, and the sun was baking mercilessly on the roof of the small veranda where we were sitting. No breeze was stirring the green foliage of the garden, the only sound being the buzzing of the mosquitoes from the small pond growing disturbingly loud in my ears. I was starting to think that coming here in the first place hadn't been a very wise decision.

"Yes," I insisted for the second time, blinking fervently.

She must have sensed the insecurity in my voice, because she leaned back in her rocking chair with a frown and waved dismissively at me with a bony white hand. Then, she closed her eyes and turned her head away, rocking gently back and forth.

It had been Rose's idea to visit all her relatives before our marriage. She wanted to present her coming husband to the entire family, saying it was an old tradition of the Cavendishes, and that it would bring luck to our marriage. So how could I refuse her? We set out from Montreal on the 2nd of June and crossed the border to the States at Buffalo where we spent a week with Rose's brother Henry. Then, we travelled on to New York to see the Johnsons on her mother's side. That was where I first heard about Aunt Bella.

The woman was apparently an older sister to Rose's father. She was the last person of the Cavendish family to remain in Texas, safely tucked away in one of the new sanatoriums in Huston. Neither Rose nor my father-in-law had ever mentioned her, but Rose insisted that we should pay her aunt a visit, too. "It's unlikely that she'll even recognize me, though," she said, "Aunt Bella is no more than 55, but she's mad as a hatter, they say."

We arrived at Huston Sanatorium for the Mentally Ill in the early morning and were instantly admitted to see Aunt Bella. The nurse told us that Rose's aunt preferred to spend her days as well as her nights on the southern veranda overlooking the sanatorium garden and the fields beyond, gazing into the distance. "As if she's waiting for someone," the nurse added with a sad smile. "Please wait here, while I get her ready". Rose's feet drew small circles on the waiting room floor, a tell-tale sign of her anxiety. She hadn't seen her aunt for nearly 15 years, she admitted, but somehow she felt that she owed Bella this visit.

Ten minutes later, the three of us were sitting around a small wicker table in the shade of the veranda, Rose and I looking out into the greenery of the sanatorium garden, while Aunt Bella studied us silently with a pair of ink-black eyes that made us squirm in our seats. She was a small and shrunken creature dressed in an all too big flower-patterned dress. I couldn't help but notice the torn and faded fringes on the bottom of the dress which allowed a clear view of her small bare feet. Her hair was a big mop of a bun which must have been jet-black in her youth.

Just as I thought the silence had grown intolerably awkward, Aunt Bella straightened up in her rocking chair and cleared her throat.

"So, this is your lad, eh?" she croaked, leaning forward. She was addressing Rose, but she kept her eyes on me.

"Jacob is from a very prosperous family of bankers in Montreal, the Hensons, you may have heard about them," Rose explained, taking my hand in hers with a gentle smile, "They own the three largest wharfs in the city, too."

"I have a steady income, and from September, I'll be assisting my father at the bank," I blurted, eager to prove myself, "I'll take care of Rose till the end of our days…"

"How old are you, boy?" Aunt Bella interrupted sharply.

"29, ma'am."

"Pfff," she frowned, leaning back in her rocking chair, "young, too damn young. Let me tell you somethin', boy: If you want to succeed in life, you'd better learn what a woman really wants from a man."

"I love Rose!" I exclaimed with all the foolish certainty of my age, clutching Rose's hand ever more tightly. I could feel her mounting discomfort.

"Do you?" her aunt asked, studying me closely.

"It's so hot out here," Rose complained suddenly, "I'll find the nurse and tell her to bring us a nice bowl of lemonade, shall I?"

She wrenched her hand free from mine and disappeared into the sanctuary of the building with hasty steps, her grey-blue dress which went so well with the colour of her eyes swishing around her as she walked.

I looked away, the deep dark eyes of Rose's aunt still on me. In the garden, a white-clad nurse escorted one of the patients on a slow walk around the pond with a tight grip of his upper arm.

"If you don't mind me asking, ma'am: Have you ever been married?" I asked, turning back to Aunt Bella, desperate to keep the conversation going till Rose's return.

"No," she answered firmly, then added dryly: "He wasn't the marrying kind, my lover."

I didn't know what to say, so I just looked at my hands resting on my knees. I could feel a blush creeping slowly up my neck.

"Ha!" Bella cackled, "You young people ain't know nothin' about the power of love, do you?" Then her voice dropped to a low whisper: "But I can tell you a real love story if you care to hear it."

"Yes," I heard myself say, almost inaudibly.

So here we were in the summer heat. My Rose's Aunt Bella was rocking gently back and forth with closed eye, while I was waiting for her to tell the story. However, little by little, the rocking chair came to a halt, but the middle-aged woman didn't move. Should I call the nurse? I looked for any movement inside the building. Rose should have been back by now. I rose to have a closer look at Aunt Bella, hoping that she had fallen asleep. Then, Rose and I could slip away never to return again. But as I bent close to her, the woman opened her eyes suddenly and grabbed my wrist with five hard fingers. My heart skipped a beat.

"Have you ever looked into the eyes of Death, lad?" she whispered, staring intently into my face.

All I could manage in response was a miserable whimper.

"Well, I have," she continued, "they were greyish blue and beautiful, and if the Devil exists, I pray he'll let me look into them once more. Now, will you hear my story?"


	2. Chapter 2

_Usual disclaimer_

**Chapter 2**

Isabel Cavendish decided to take another round along the fences to be sure that all the holes had been mended. The last storm hadn't been kind to the old wooden structures, but with a little help from a stable boy, she had managed to mend the worst damages in three days. Not a moment too soon, she thought, stirring the chopped tomatoes into the boiling bacon and beans. The boys would be back with the herd from the summer pastures within a week.

She took her rifle and mounted her horse, a four-year-old pale grey mare, and looked at the western horizon. Half an hour till the sun would set, but she could make her round in 20 minutes and be back at her humble camp before the last rays left the hillsides. She had sent the boy home hours ago with a message to her father that she would be back after sunset. These last few hours of the day were hers and hers alone.

The green hillsides were bathed in the glow of the last rays of light. This was the most fertile part of the valley, just where the river bended to the east, slowing down and broadening to a majestic stream. Isabel's father had bought these lands of the barber only three years ago, when the raids of the Indians had made it impossible to have cattle in the valley. That was before the peace treaty, though, and now her father's fortune had prospered on the fat herds grazing on the hills each autumn. She breathed in the perfumed smell of the trees and grasses, looking at the lengthening shadows cast by the bushes. If only she could be free to roam these lands every day, Isabel thought with a smile. Then, she shook her head and turned her pale mare back towards the camp.

A noise caught her ears even before the camp came into sight. A faint shuffle of feet in the dirt, and the swishing of horses' tales. She halted her horse and listened intently. How many were they? Five or six? Just enough bullets in the rifle, she thought, setting her mare silently in motion around the camp. She would meet them with the setting sun in her back, making it impossible for them to see her.

She halted behind a thorny shrub and lifted her rifle, peering cautiously through the twigs. There were five men and their horses. A big Mexican with a ponderous belly, an old bearded man, a lad who was no more than a boy, a scrawny scarecrow of a guy with laces on his head and a man in black with a broad-brimmed black hat shadowing his face. Outlaws.

"Dinner's served, boys," the black-clad man called in a rasping voice, taking a spoonful of her bacon and beans. He was obviously the leader of the gang, so he had to go first.

Isabel released the safety catch of the rifle noiselessly.

"You'd better leave my dinner be, lest I shoot your bloody head of, you stinking bastard!"

Four of the men grabbed their guns instantly and aimed at her, squinting in the bright backlight. The man in black just lifted his head lazily, his face still in the shadow of his hat.

"A gal, eh? I guess we'll have ya for dessert, then," he rasped to the general amusement of his men.

Slowly, he put the spoon down and moved his hand upward along the hem of his long coat towards his belt.

"You son of a bitch!" Isabel exclaimed, pulling the trigger.

The black hat landed in the dirt several yards away, making one of the horses rear and whinny. The five guns were fired simultaneously, and Isabel flattened herself quickly onto the back of her scared horse. None of the bullets hit her, so she straightened up and reloaded, aiming at the leader of the outlaws.

The setting sun was shining full in his face now, setting his sullen skin on fire with a golden glow. His skull-like face was framed by lank and greasy locks growing shoulder-long and black. His sunken cheeks were crowned by two high cheekbones, and in the pit of his dark eyeholes, two grey-blue eyes were shining maliciously in the last rays of the sun. Under a crooked nose, a scar on the right side of the upper lip allowed a silver tooth in his mouth to reflect the light and twisted his thin lips into a hideous snarl.

"Butch?!" she exclaimed, aghast, "Uncle Butch?!"

"Niece," he said, giving a short nod by way of greeting.

His men looked at each other, then at their leader with confusion on their faces.

"I nearly shot you dead, you bastard!" she laughed, scrambling off her horse.

Her uncle went to meet her, and they stopped with a couple of yards between them, studying each other with interest.

"Who taught you to talk like that?" Butch asked reprovingly.

"Why, the man who taught me to shoot," she answered.

That brought a smile to his mutilated mouth. It had been a decade since they had met. Then, Isabel had been a little girl of ten, and Bartholomew Cavendish had been doing service as a young major of the Union Army. He had visited them as often as he could, teaching his boyish niece to ride, shoot, drink and smoke.

"Come and have some food," she said, turning to her uncle's men, "you look like a sorry bunch of famished assholes."

She spooned a plateful of bacon and beans for each of them, and they sat down to eat greedily in the light of the fire as darkness fell around them. The eyes of the men were all over her, but Isabel did only have eyes for her uncle. He sat hunched over his food, his broad shoulders relaxed for once. How come she hadn't recognized him? His tall figure was a bit stooping as if he was afraid to hit his head on a low ceiling. The result of too many years in prison, she decided. His face was wrinkled with fine lines around the eyes, a bunch of grey beard grew sparsely on his chin, and his black hair was streaked with grey locks. Most of all, he looked like one of the ravaged alley cats in town. So different from her memory of him.

"You've grown old, Uncle."

He looked up at her with a crooked smile on his lips.

"And you've grown…" he made a movement with his hand to indicate her curves, "… and grown. A real little lady you've become."

Isabel was a short and slender young woman with the big dark eyes and jet-black hair of the Cavendishes. She was wearing her youngest brother Henry's trousers, shirt and leather west, but even those were too big, and she had to fold up the sleeves and the legs. Her face and hands were covered in dirt from working with the fences, and she smelled of horse, sweat and gunpowder.

"A lady?! Ha!" she laughed, "My father would like to make a lady of me, sure. He hasn't succeeded yet, though."

"Matt has always been pretentious," Butch murmured, ladling another spoonful of beans into his mouth.

"Unlike my favourite uncle," Isabel noted smugly, heaving an eyebrow.

"You've only got one as far as I remember."

"I know. Gives me a poor choice, doesn't it?"

Now, it was his turn to laugh, beans spraying to all sides. He wiped his mouth with the back of a dirty hand.

"Don't suppose you've got any whiskey around here, Niece?"

"Only water."

"Now, that's what I call a poor choice."

He took the flask she offered him, though, swallowing about half of its content in one drag before handing it back.

"You've come back after all these years," she said, wiping the mouth of the flask, "why?"

"Business," he answered curtly, looking at the remains of his food.

"I see."

She emptied her flask, studying the outlaw over the rim. She didn't remember the exact day her uncle had left them for good. He used to come and go as it fitted him, so she had grown used to his sudden disappearances. One day she had seen a poster with his name on it in big fat capital letters, though. That was the moment she knew. He had become one of the most notorious outlaws in Texas and New Mexico alike, his gang hunting down trains and coaches in the desert, killing men, women and children on their way. Some said that Butch Cavendish would cut out and eat the hearts of his foes.

Her uncle put down the empty plate and rose with a sigh.

"Time to go, boys. We don't want to keep up my beautiful niece any longer."

His men scrambled to their feet, muttering, and the big Mexican let out an enormous belch. Butch turned to Isabel.

"Thanks for your hospitality, Bella," he said, stroking her cheek with two fingers the way he used to do when she was a child, "and give my regards to Matt."

"You can give it to him yourself," she said, grabbing the halter of his horse as he swung himself into the saddle, "if you're not loath to pay us a visit."

He glared at her with a piercing look for some moments, his grey-blue eyes shining in the firelight. Then, he pursed his thin lips.

"We'll see about that, my dear."

He bid her farewell with a nod, turning his horse to the south. In a few moments, Butch Cavendish and his gang of outlaws had disappeared into the darkness, only the fainting clatter of their horses' hooves still lingering on the hillsides. Isabel was standing in the light of the dying fire, night creeping steadily in around her. It was time for her to go home.


	3. Chapter 3

_Usual disclaimer. And thanks to Hank Williams III for kicking ass.  
_

**Chapter 3**

She heard the coach drive into the yard, its wheels scrambling on the cobbles. It halted with a squeak in front of the entrance door. Why was her father back so soon? Usually, he stayed in his town office until the evening dinner, sometimes even overnight, although she knew that it was hardly his office he spent his nights in.

Isabel put down her book and peered out of the window, but the men had already moved out of sight. There were two of them, one being her father. She could hear them talking in low voices while they knocked the dirt off their boots, but she couldn't make out the words that were spoken. As the front door opened, she straightened the folds of her dress quickly and took up her book once more.

"…by William Jenkins, eh?" she heard her father ask as he closed the door, "What the bloody hell does he want with you?"

Silence.

"I could turn you in, you know, and become a rich man," her father continued.

"You are already a rich man, Matt, remember?" the other man said in a low rasping voice, "but if you want to be a dead man too, then be my guest."

Isabel sucked in her breath. He had come.

It had almost seemed like a fleeting dream the day she had met her long-lost uncle Butch Cavendish and his gang of outlaws in the fields. He had gone the way he had come – unannounced and unceremoniously like a summer storm. The news about his brother's return had set her father squirming in his broad leather-padded chair, but he had done his best to conceal his anxiousness. That had been two weeks ago, but she had heard no more from her uncle. By now, she had lost all hope to see him again within the next decade.

"Isabel! Where are you, child?" Matthew Cavendish shouted, bursting into the living room, followed by his brother, "Make your uncle and me a cup of coffee, will you?"

"I ain't drinkin' no coffee, Matt, but a glass o' whiskey will go down well," Butch said, greeting Isabel by lifting two fingers to the broad brim of his black hat, "Niece."

She sent him a curt nod and rose to fill two glasses with whiskey. Although they were brothers, the two middle-aged men couldn't have been more different. While the outlaw was lean and stooped with a face ravaged by fights and desert winds, the tradesman was big-bellied with a broad chest and a smooth round face. Unlike his brother's, Matt Cavendish's short-cropped hair and thick moustache had gone all grey, and the back of his head had started to get bald.

Isabel's father stepped to the door, his deep dark eyes sending his baby brother an uneasy look.

"Let's go into the study," he said, leading the way in his fine grey suit and shiny boots, the thick golden chain of his watch hitting against his belly with each step.

Her uncle followed in his faded black clothes and dusty riding boots. He turned his head and winked at her as they crossed the entrance hall to her father's study. She seated herself again on the sofa with her book, determined not to listen in on their conversation. The sound of stroked matches and a deal of puffing carried into the living room. Her father had offered her uncle one of his cherished Cuban cigars, she knew. Those cigars were the future, he used to say.

"The sheriff will be back in town in three weeks," she heard him say, "How will Jenkins cope with that?"

"It's not my problem," her uncle answered dryly.

"It may be if you end up with a noose around your neck."

"This business is worth the risk o' ten small-town sheriffs," Butch said.

"As you say," Matt answered brusquely, "You just keep me and mine out of it."

"You afraid of losin' somethin', brother?" the outlaw grinned.

Matthew Cavendish started to pace back and forth in the study like a caged animal, lecturing about the worth of honour and a good reputation. He was, after all, the older brother. Isabel could feel a growing discomfort about the situation.

"They say you're murdering children and have a lust for human flesh, for God's sake!" Matt finished, almost shouting.

Isabel looked up just to catch the gaze of her uncle. The door of the study stood ajar. Butch was sitting in one of the comfortable leather-padded chairs, his glass of whiskey in one hand, the cigar in the other. Both his feet were on the top of the heavy oak desk, pushing him onto the hind legs of the chair. When he leaned back, he had a full view of his niece sitting on the sofa in the living room. The outlaw was staring at her with a greedy light in his cold eyes as if mesmerized by the sight. All of a sudden, her white blouse with its high lace collar and her black-striped dress seemed to grow hot and tight, and Isabel wished that she could hide inside the loose and cool men's clothes she used to wear in the fields. For how long had he been undressing her like this?

"Are you even listening to what I'm saying, Butch?!" Matt thundered, pacing up and down.

She knitted her brows, closed the book with an audible smack, went to the door of the living room and closed it demonstratively, never for a moment flinching from the unusual lustre in her uncle's look. She didn't have to put up with all of his mischiefs.

Half an hour later, the muttered conversation of the two men came to an end, and Isabel heard the front door open. Then, the door of the living room was opened, but instead of her father, her uncle entered the room. After sending him a short reproving glance, she returned to the pages of her book.

"What're you readin', sweet Niece?" he asked, seating himself on the sofa beside her without waiting for her invitation.

"'The Life and Deeds of Hank Williams, Rebel and Outlaw'," she said airily without looking up, "Do you read books, Uncle? You should. They contain a lot of wisdom. This Hank Williams, for instance, ended his days on a scaffold in Memphis."

"I can write my name and spell out the word 'wanted'," her uncle answered, "That's enough wisdom for me."

"I could read aloud for you," she volunteered.

He laid his arm on the back of the sofa behind her and crossed his legs, his knee brushing softly against hers as he did so.

"I've been thinking about you ever since we met…" he whispered, leaning closer to her.

She could feel his breath on her ear, and a smell of whiskey, cigar smoke, horse and sweat filled her nostrils. She turned her head and looked him straight in the eyes.

"Oh, really?" she interrupted him sharply, heaving an eyebrow inquisitively, "Then why didn't you come sooner?"

The front door opened once more, and Matthew Cavendish stomped ponderously into the living room, his round face flustered from the walk. Her uncle pulled away from her instinctively.

"I've had Martha kill a goose," Isabel's father breathed, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, "I presume you're staying for dinner, Butch."


	4. Chapter 4

_Ususal disclaimer._

**Chapter 4**

"So?" I asked, shifting in my wicker chair. By now, I was rather certain where Aunt Bella's story was going, and the notion filled me with a feeling of one part disgust and one part curiosity.

"So what?" she said sharply, looking at me with mild irritation.

"So, did he stay for dinner?"

"Oh yes. Yes, Butch Cavendish stayed for dinner alright. And he came back the next day, and the day after."

She fell silent again, staring into thin air and nodding slightly as if she was recounting the details of her memories to herself. A fly buzzed lazily past my head and landed on the edge of the table where it started to hone its hind legs against its wings. Then, it sat still for some moments contemplating its course of flight before taking to its wings again.

A filthy outlaw and a tradesman's young daughter, I mused, why not? Only 15 years past, the States had been overrun by thieves, murderers and crazed veterans of the war – the last big era of the outlaws, they said. But the law enforcement reforms and the construction of large prisons with modern facilities had brought and end to that. Now, the only rebels roaming the countryside were the poor devils who had to give up their lands to the advance of what rich people like myself and my father called progress.

The sound of hasty footsteps on the marble floor of the veranda interrupted my chain of thoughts, and I looked up to see Rose returning with a tray in her hands. I exhaled with relief and sent her a loving smile, straightening up in my seat, but she didn't return my kindness. Her lovely face was set in hard dissatisfied folds, her lips a thin red line underlining her displeasure.

"Those damned nurses have gone to church! Only the servants remain. I had to find the kitchens all by myself. Can you believe that?!" she spluttered, placing the tray with its contents noisily on the table, "They'll hear for this!"

I didn't say anything. Trying to escape her vicious look was my best option to calm the situation. When Rose got foul-natured, she would turn on anyone, especially those closest to her. There was no way to placate her – the storm had to pass on its own. "I sure don't know where she's got that temper. Certainly not from my side of the family," her father had told me over a glass of brandy, and we had both laughed nervously.

Aunt Bella looked up at Rose as though she had just recognized her. Then, the surprise in her eyes gave way to an expression of mild amusement.

"Calm down, my dear," she said in a bidding tone, "and be good an' fetch me my bottle o' whiskey. It's upstairs in my room – first corridor to the left. Under the bed."

"Are you sure that's a good idea, Aunt Be…?" Rose started with surprise, instantly forgetting her anger.

"Just run along, love, and be quick about it," her aunt cut in, shooing her away with a lazy hand.

We watched Rose retreat into the building in silence. Then, Aunt Bella reached across the table and patted my knee.

"I still like a little glass o' whiskey, you see," she said good-humouredly, winking at me, "but unfortunately the nurses only go to church ever so seldom."

I was speechless. I didn't know whether I should be most shocked by the behaviour of the middle-aged woman or by the way she had dealt with Rose's sudden fit of rage. Aunt Bella leaned back in her chair again, setting it in motion, and looked out across the garden, bobbing her head as if she was sniffing the air.

"Women need to be challenged, the same as men," she said out of the blue, looking back at me, "My poor father, God rest his soul, never understood that. Let me ask you something, lad: Are you the first-born child of your father?"

I nodded hesitantly, wondering where she was heading with her sudden change of topic.

"Hmmm," she said thoughtfully, gazing at her fragile hands, "So was I, except that I happened to be a girl. My father never quite recovered from his disappointment, I fear, even after the birth of my brother Matt, and later our baby brother Henry."

"Fathers care for all of their children," I put forth, feebly attempting to soothe the conversation.

"They care, yes. But do they love them? No," she said frankly, "After the birth of my brothers, my father knew where to channel his love, and I was left in the care o' my mother. God knows she did her best to give me a good upbringin', poor thing, but I was a wild child, and I guess her limited abilities just weren't enough. I wanted to ride horses instead of playin' with dolls and sewing dresses. I wanted to herd cattle instead of takin' care o' my brothers. Doing girlish things posed little and less challenge to me."

Bella raised her head and closed her eyes, smiling slightly at her recollections. The tips of her thin white fingers were drumming lightly on the thick fabric of the flower-patterned dress covering her knees. Then, she started to snigger silently like a little girl, and I understood that she had already moved on to another memory. She opened her eyes and looked straight at me.

"He courted me like no man has ever courted a woman," she said, a mischievous flash appearing in her eyes, "Not with gifts an' sweet words, no. That wasn't 'is way." She shook her head with a smile.

"But your father…" I ventured, unable to contain my indignation any longer, "What did he say? He must have known that… I mean…"

"My father knew," she answered, helping me out of my embarrassment, "At least I believe he did, though he never raised a word against it. Like all sane men, he had a healthy fear of Butch Cavendish."

She nodded again, this time thoughtfully, and I thought to see a shadow of sadness cross her face. I wondered whether I should ask about her own sentiments towards her uncle, but Aunt Bella had read the question off of my face long before I could put it into words.

"Me, though," she said, her eyes flaming with a sudden passion, "I've never been a man, nor particularly sane."


	5. Chapter 5

_Ususal disclaimer_

**Chapter 5**

"I'm sorry, Bella," her father said, looking at her sternly over the back of the horse, "but not this time."

"You promised," she insisted, making the animal jolt by bringing down the blanket too firmly on its back.

Matt Cavendish sighed resignedly.

"I didn't promise," he said, mustering all his patience, "I said that you could go if your brothers came home."

"I don't need escort," Isabel reasoned, "I can go perfectly well on my own."

"And how would that look like?" her father exclaimed, "What would people say about you? What would they say about _me_?"

Isabel smoothed the blanket on the horse, wiped her dirty hands on her trousers and grabbed the empty water bucket, unable to hide her disappointment. Matthew Cavendish Jr. was in Houston, selling cattle. Since he had entered the cattle trade on their father's behalf one year ago, their business had doubled in size. Now, he was the youngest chairman at the Cattle Traders' Association, travelling to all the biggest auctions in the South. Isabel's younger brother Henry had been sent to New York as an apprentice at an accountant's office. His latest letter had told about his engagement with the youngest daughter of the prosperous Johnson family. None of them would be home for the harvest celebrations.

Isabel went out into the blazing sunshine and paced across the yard between the stable and the barn, the bucket dangling in her hand. Her father trotted after her, panting in the heat. She looked sourly at the enormous building ahead of her. When she was a child, Isabel had spent hours in the barn, playing hide and seek with her uncle. That is, he had pretended to be counting to a hundred while in reality he had been fondling one of the black kitchen maids. She, on the other hand, had pretended to hide while in reality she had been spying on him. Nevertheless, she had enjoyed their game, and so had he presumably. Then later, the building had been damaged by a savage spring storm, and her father had called in workers to repair it. She used to smile whenever she remembered her secret nights in the arms of the carpenter's apprentice in the back of the hayloft. His name had been Willy, and he had given her plenty of opportunities to practice what she had learned by observing her uncle and the maid many years earlier. At the moment, however, she felt only contempt for the old barn. Once they had been her playground, but now these buildings had become her prison.

She walked around a corner, nearly tripping over their cooking wife Martha's smallest boy who was herding the geese to a more shadowy spot of the yard.

"Watch out!" she hissed angrily at the child.

Terrified, he looked up into her face and pulled his hat quickly off his head, stammering an apology. She didn't stay to hear him out, though, but headed towards the house. The sun was baking mercilessly now, it would soon be noon. As she circled to the front of the house, she could no longer contain her frustration and rounded suddenly on her father who was still following her, almost making him bounce into her.

"It's the most important ball of the year," she said heatedly, "You know the Mayor expects us to be there. We'll look like fools if we're not represented."

"We've got better things to do than attend all kinds o' balls," Matt answered, trying to remain calm, "Besides, if you hadn't scared away all your suitors with your bawdy behaviour, you'd have someone to accompany you. In this case, you're staying home."

"But father…"

"I said no!"

"I'll take 'er."

Isabel and her father turned their heads and squinted at the porch of the house. Butch Cavendish was leaning against one of the carved wooden pillars, sliding the point of his knife through a crack in the wood. He and his men had disappeared into the desert a week ago, some said with a wagon of wooden boxes. "It's that damned business he was rambling about," Matt Cavendish had grunted, "One day he'll blow himself up with Jenkins' rubbish dynamites." None of them had noticed, and much less expected his early return.

"What?" Isabel's father asked breathlessly, screwing up his face.

The outlaw pushed back his broad-brimmed hat with his knife and studied them from the shadow with his cold eyes. Then, he sent a dark gob of spit to the ground, reached into the inner pocket of his coat and took out a lump of chewing tobacco. He cut off a corner and put it into his mouth lazily.

"I'll take 'er to the ball," he repeated.

There was a moment of silence, broken only by the distant sound of the geese in the back yard.

"Oh no," his brother answered, "No, you don't."

"It's time for me to see them new folks in town," Butch said, strolling slowly down the stairs of the porch and stopping right in front of Isabel, "Easy to do at a ball."

Isabel's father shook his head, his face set in a grim expression. He tramped up the stairs to the front door and turned back towards his little brother.

"We'll have to talk, Butch," he said gruffly, pointing at him with a trembling finger, "Now!" Then, he disappeared inside.

Isabel looked into her uncle's eyes, a smirk spreading across her lips.

"Have you missed me, Uncle?" she asked teasingly.

"I miss you every single night, sweetheart," he cooed, tracing two calloused fingers along her jaw.

"Good," she said cruelly, narrowing her eyes.

She turned on her heels and walked away towards the well with her empty bucket, leaving her uncle dumbfounded in the middle of the yard. He followed her with a hard gaze for a moment. Then, he sighed and followed his brother into the house.

Three days later, he came to pick her up at sundown with a rented gig. She could hear it rattle into the yard, the horse snorting and stamping impatiently as the two-wheeled vehicle came to a halt. It wasn't used to pulling gigs.

Isabel took one last look in the old oval mirror in the corner of her bedroom and nodded with satisfaction. She had put on one of her mother's old dresses – the crimson velvet with the slim waist and bared shoulders. It would do. She had tried to mount her hair in the fashionable way she had seen other young ladies do in town, but had decided against it in the last minute. Instead, she had let her black locks cascade down her back, brushed into big soft curls.

She heard her father and uncle greet each other in low grumpy voices as she closed the bedroom door behind her. The two men hadn't spoken since their row the day Butch had declared that he would accompany his niece to the ball. Her father had been raging, but her uncle had got his will as always, which she was utterly thankful for. Now, he was standing at the foot of the stairs in the hallway, waiting for her with his black hat in his hands.

Isabel peered at him from above – somehow he seemed different, but she couldn't quite say how. Her uncle was looking down, his long hair hiding his face. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other and started to draw small circles on the carpet with the tip of a dusty boot. Was he being anxious?

She shook a stray lock of hair out of her face and started down the stairs. Butch Cavendish looked up, his eyes narrowing. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then he closed it again without a word, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he swallowed.

"Good evening, Uncle," she said softly, standing still in front of him.

"You sure look lovely, Niece," he managed, evidently doing his best to pull himself together.

She smiled. For once, her uncle was clean-shaved, and his hair was falling freshly washed around his face with a feather of a hawk fastened to a grey-black lock. He was wearing a bright white shirt under a black silver-embroidered vest and a black jacket, the shining chain of a silver watch dangling from a pocket on the right side of the vest. His worn and faded riding trousers were replaced by a pair of clean black ones made of fine cotton. All his clothes seemed new and clean, and the smell of harsh soap filled the air around him. He must have spent hours and hours scrubbing off all that dirt, Isabel thought, the notion widening her smile.

He fumbled a bit at the brim of his hat which had been decorated with a band of silver rivets around the crown. Then suddenly, something came to his mind, and he cleared his throat, producing a bright red rosebud from behind his hat.

"This one's for you," he explained uneasily.

Isabel's eyes widened with surprise. The last time Butch had brought her a present was when she had been eight or nine years old. He had bent down and pushed a heavy rock into her small hand discretely. She had looked at the stone in astonishment, inspecting the shine of its dark metallic facets in the sunlight. "What is it?" she had whispered. Her uncle had looked at her enigmatically, and then he had tapped his newly bared silver tooth with a dirty nail, winking at her. She had clutched the rock tightly, absolutely overwhelmed. She had never in her life seen so much precious metal in one lump. "There's more where it comes from," he had whispered back, "And when I'm dead 'n' gone, it'll all be yours." She still kept the silver rock hidden in a drawer next to her bed.

Isabel took the rose, making sure her fingers were touching his, and lifted it to her nose, inhaling deeply.

"It's from old Mrs Lawrence's front garden, isn't it?" she asked, finally breaking the awkwardness of the moment with her mocking tone, "I never thought you'd take to stealing flowers."

"You're never satisfied, are ya?" he retorted with a scowl, turning on his heels and putting on his hat, "Let's get the hell out o' here."


	6. Chapter 6

_Usual disclaimer_

**Chapter 6**

The Harvest Ball was hosted by the Mayor in the town hall, a large wooden building with wooden pillars carved as Doric columns supporting an oversize triangular tympanum. The whole monstrosity was white-washed and mottled to give the impression of a classical marble temple. Inside, the big hall was filled to its bursting with people in their finest clothes talking and sipping their drinks, while a local quartet did their best to cut through the general hubbub with their selection of the newest tunes from Europe. Along the walls, the gas lamps were emitting a ruddy glow which was reflected in the diamond-studded jewels of the ladies. What had once started as a modest celebration of the harvest season by the first settlers had now become a show-off ball for the wealthy.

Isabel and Butch Cavendish stood in the door, looking silently at the colourful crowd. The Mayor and his wife were greeting the newly arrived guests to the right of the entrance door. To the left, a group of men in fine suits and silk ties were talking lowly – arms trader William Jenkins, banker Stuart Holmes and the young entrepreneur Francis Dahl Jr. who wanted to bring a branch of the new railroad to their town. Their wives were chattering away happily in the opposite corner. In the middle of the big hall, five young couples were waltzing around to the sound of the violin, their faces flustered form the dance and the looks of their partners.

Isabel glared at all the stiffly smiling faces and sighed heavily. Suddenly, the whole glamour of the ball seemed pointless and dull. The excitement she had felt about the event last year and the years before that was gone, and she felt endlessly tired as if she was watching a children's game that she had grown too old to participate in. She slipped her hand around her uncle's arm and gave it a squeeze. He turned his head and looked at her, his expression mirroring her own feelings of desolation. Then, they turned around and walked away.

A quarter of an hour later, they were sitting at the inn a few hundred yards down the street. The fat keeper had brought them a bottle of whiskey, two glasses and a deck of cards and was now retreating to his place behind the bar, sending them a suspicious glance. Isabel kicked off her shoes and corrected the rose Butch had given her. She had fastened it at the bosom of her dress. They had chosen a table in the shadowy corner closest to the bar. Apart from the innkeeper and themselves, only an old piano player, two painted whores and three guests were there. Two of the guests were hanging at the bar, already more than sufficiently drunk, and a third was sitting in the opposite corner with his hand between the legs of one of the whores. The second whore sent Isabel a sullen glare, a fuming cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth. I'm obviously disrupting the prospects of a profitable night by being here, Isabel thought with a crooked smile.

Butch took off his jacket, throwing it on the chair next to his own, and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt.

"Let's play," he rasped, starting to shuffle the cards.

"Alright, but no cheating," Isabel said warningly.

"I'd never cheat."

"Liar," she answered, a wide smile spreading across her face.

He smiled back with a spark of mischief in his grey-blue eyes. She filled the two glasses to the brim with whiskey, while he dealt the cards.

It had been years since she had played at cards. When she had been a child, her uncle had taught her all kinds of games, but now, no-one cared to play with a woman. She could still remember the day her mother had walked into their living room to discover her and Butch playing strip poker. Isabel had been stripped down to her breeches, but she had still been proud about having made her uncle throw his hat and vest. Her mother had screamed and shouted hysterically – back then, Isabel hadn't understood why. Two days later, their old stable boy Jack had found her mother drowned in the well. There had been a letter on her dressing table saying that she couldn't cope with life anymore. To the six-year-old Isabel, the worst thing had been that she hadn't been allowed to drink from the well for three weeks.

They both shot down their first drink before starting the game, and Isabel filled the glasses again. Then, they played in silence for a while.

"Tell me about this business of yours," she said suddenly as card after card was laid on the table.

"There's nothin' to tell," Butch said, studying the cards in his hand.

She leaned back and put a bare foot on his knee, pushing herself onto the hind legs of her chair.

"You don't trust me?" she asked softly, pursing her lips.

He sent her a sharp look, took his glass and emptied it in a single gulp. She followed suit. He filled both glasses and corked the bottle again.

"It's a long story," he said, swallowing hard, "But the bottom line is that Cole 'n' I will soon be rich."

Isabel heaved her eyebrows with interest. Latham Cole was an old friend of her uncle's back from his Union Army days. Butch used to call him his 'chosen brother', telling about how the two of them had once forced a whole crowd of Indians to their knees singlehandedly. That had been the time when Butch had got that hideous scar on his upper lip. In Isabel's mind, her uncle had been a true hero, but now she had a feeling that there was more to the story than he had cared to tell her, an aspect she wasn't sure she even wanted to know. Some months after the episode, her uncle and his friend had both been dismissed from the army, and Cole had become some sort of big shot at the Union Pacific Railroad.

"How rich?" she asked, moving her foot slowly up the inner side of his thigh.

"Very," he gasped, his eyes blurring for a fraction of a second, "D'you still have the silver ore I gave you?"

"God damn! Really?!" she exclaimed with wide eyes, bouncing back onto all four legs and letting go of her uncle's thigh.

Isabel grabbed her glass and shot her third whiskey right down. Butch exhaled loudly and did the same. If anyone would follow through on such an insane mining adventure, it would certainly be her uncle.

They played on in silence once more, matching each other in strikes and shots alike. Having damaged her uncle's concentration for good, she won the first round as well as the second. By the third round, they emptied the bottle, and Butch won with several points. He rose on somewhat insecure legs and called for the piano player to play a dancing tune.

"Come dance with me, sweet Niece," he slurred, grabbing Isabel's hand and pulling her to her feet before she could answer.

She laughed noisily and staggered into his arms, placing both hands on his chest to regain her balance. He planted his rough hands firmly on her waist and pulled her close, grinning smugly. Then, he spun her around, making her scream with laughter again.

Once, Isabel had run away from home in the middle of the night in search of her uncle. She had known exactly where to go. He had been raising hell at the bar with some of his pals and a couple of women when she had entered, a small girl in a nightgown and dirty bare feet. They had all laughed at her, but he had taken her by the hand and pulled her onto the dance floor. "I like gals who know how to dance," he had said, bowing gallantly, "Will ya dance with me, m'lady?" He had made her swirl faster and faster until she had been choking with laughter, but when she had come home the next morning, her father had refused to see the fun in her little excursion. She had had bruises from the beating for a week afterward.

She looked into her uncle's face and traced the scar between his lip and nose with a finger, feeling dizzy. Nobody could spin her around like Butch Cavendish. Or was it the whiskey?

"You had this dancer once, a redhead," she ventured, "Whatever became of her?"

He fixed her with a hard gaze, suddenly becoming completely sober. For a moment, they stopped dancing.

"Let's just say that she lost 'er footing," he answered with a wry smile.

Isabel took his head in her hands and pulled him closer, pressing her forehead against his and closing her eyes. There was so much she still didn't know about him. She could feel him tightening his grip around her waist, and when she opened her eyes again, she could see him move in for a kiss. Now, she sobered up, too, and pulled her head away quickly, not daring to look into his disappointed eyes.

"It's getting late," she said while she disentangled herself from his embrace, "Let's go home."

The gig stopped in front of the porch with a jerk. The lights were still on in the living room, casting a faint glow out into the yard through the dusty windows. Her father was apparently still awake and waiting for her to come home. Isabel looked at her uncle holding the reins of his unruly horse.

"I've had a wonderful evening," she said earnestly, "Thank you."

He stared at her, his eyes darting from one feature in her face to another. A glint of something dangerous in his eyes made her uneasy, and she made to leave him, but he grabbed her wrist quickly with a strong hand, making her wince with pain. She scrutinized his look with a hurt expression, her heart beating faster with every second.

"I want ya," he whispered, breathing whiskey into her face, "And what I want, I usually take."

She narrowed her eyes and tightened her mouth to a thin line, twisting her hand free from his grip. Who did he think he was, talking to her as if she were a common slut? She slapped him across the face as hard as she could, her fingers tingling from the impact.

"Well, sometimes you'll have to make do with taking only what you're offered, Bartholomew Cavendish," she announced in an affronted tone.

They sat studying each other with hard eyes for one awkward moment. But after a while, she relaxed, and a playful smile crept into the corners of her mouth. Swiftly, she put a hand on his cheek and pressed a light wet kiss onto the scarred side of his mouth, fleeting as the wings of a butterfly. Before he could react, she jumped off the gig and ran up the steps to the front door. She turned around and sent him a wink, a bright laughter escaping her lips. Then, she vanished into the house, and the door closed shut behind her with a loud bang.


	7. Chapter 7

_Usual disclaimer_

**Chapter 7**

Thud!

She brought down the meat cleaver forcefully on the kitchen table, separating a leg from the rest of the body at the hip joint with a single blow. Bright red blood ran from the corpse onto the table where it gathered in a small pool before running over the edge and hitting the floor with a faintly dripping sound. The queasy smell of flesh, blood and gore hung thickly in the air.

Isabel let go of the cleaver and wiped her forehead with the back of a bloody hand, exhaling heavily. She looked out of the kitchen window at the setting sun which was now shining next to the barn, sending its red glow into the room in a flat angle. The end of another hot day, hopefully one of the last this year. She wiped her sweaty palms on her apron and undid the topmost buttons of her white blouse. She had put up her hair in a lose bun, but it didn't help against the heat. She needed more air, or she would suffocate. She touched the bruises on her neck and shoulder blades gingerly and winced. When she had gone to sleep last night, they had just been red spots against her white skin, but by morning, they had turned bluish black with yellow edges.

Her eyes glided over the remaining carcasses lying furless on the table. Four more, then she would be done. Her father had sent for a fresh supply of ice for their small ice house some weeks ago. The new load had arrived today, dripping cold water through the hay packing and down the sides of the wagon, and Martha had decided it was time to butcher ten of the young rabbits which had been born in the early spring. We won't be eating anything but rabbit for a fortnight, Isabel thought with a sigh. Martha was a good cooking wife with a big heart and an even bigger mouth, but inventiveness had never been her force.

She grabbed the meat cleaver again, wrenching it free from the hard wooden surface of the table, and brought it down on the other leg with a thud. If she hurried, she might finish the job and change into cleaner clothes before her father came home. She turned the animal and hacked off its remaining legs. Thud! Thud! Then, she turned it onto its belly and cut it into two smaller pieces at the middle of the spine. Thud! The pool of blood from the rabbit grew larger and started to trickle faster onto the floor. Drip-drip, drip-drip.

She threw the finished pieces of meat into a large bowl filled with water and reached for the next carcass, working systematically. Suddenly, a dark shadow moved in the corner of her eye and she raised her head with a start, her heart skipping a beat. He was standing in the kitchen door, leaning against its wooden frame and looking at her.

"Holy Mother of God!" Isabel exclaimed, "You scared the crap out o' me!"

Butch just glared at her in silence.

"If you've come to see Matt, he'll be home any minute now," she continued, returning her attention to her work.

Her uncle sauntered into the room and tossed his faded black hat next to the furless corpses. Then, he sat down on one of the wooden chairs and threw his legs onto the table, making the rabbits jump.

"Actually," he said in a casual tone, "I've come to see my darlin' Niece."

Thud!

The naked head of the rabbit rolled away as it was separated from its body. Isabel sent her uncle a stolen glance. Once again, he was clad in his usual worn-out clothes and mud-crusted boots, his scarf and shirt collar were stained with dirt and sweat, and his hair was as greasy and unkempt as ever, she observed with some satisfaction. That was the way she liked him.

She didn't answer him, though. Instead, she flung the head into a bucket and turned the body of the rabbit to get a better cutting angle.

Drip-drip, the blood was running steadily onto the floor.

He picked his silver tooth with a dirty broken nail, staring at the bloody carcass in her hands with an absent look in his eyes.

Drip-drip.

Then, he shifted on his chair and crossed his ankles the other way round, his rusty spurs clinking from the movement.

Thud!

Drip-drip, drip-drip.

She sent him another glance. He was growing restless.

"What's that?" she asked with a sigh, finally breaking the tense silence.

"Jenkins. He's up to somethin' an' it ain't no good."

Butch jumped to his feet and started to pace up and down the kitchen floor, a grim expression on his face. Then, he continued: "If he fucks with me, I swear I'm gonna pistol-whip him until I hear the sound o' his fuckin' brain."

Thud!

"You're a hard man, Butch," Isabel said with an ill-concealed smile, shaking her head. Her uncle made but few promises, but she knew that the ones he made, he would always keep.

He spun around, his thin scarred lips curling back in a vicious grin that revealed his tobacco-stained teeth. He was by her side in three long strides.

"Yeah," he murmured into her ear in a low voice, his mood suddenly changed, "and I grow harder whenever you're around, sweetheart."

Thud! The meat cleaver worked its way through the sinew noisily and got stuck in the table. She had brought it down with unnecessary force.

He put a hand on her stomach, pressing his thumb against her breastbone as he moved it up between her breasts. Then, he grabbed her wrist and held her blood-stained hand up for a closer inspection. With painful slowness, he put her bloody fingers into his mouth one by one and sucked them clean to the knuckles. Another one of his cruel games, she thought, staring fixedly at the naked rabbit and trying to ignore him.

Drip-drip.

All of a sudden, he froze in mid-movement and sucked in his breath through clenched teeth. He had seen the bruises on her neck and shoulders.

"Who did this?" he asked darkly, tracing a finger along the discoloured spots on her skin, "Your father?"

Isabel shuddered, trying to shake off her uncle's touch. Her father would always use the hard wooden knob at the end of his walking stick, which meant that the bruises would only appear some hours later, but all the more painfully. He had become a master at hitting her only where the traces could be concealed.

"I guess I smelled too much of whiskey," she answered, looking at her uncle with reproachful eyes. But that night out was worth a hundred beatings, she thought.

A sardonic smile appeared on Butch's lips as if he had read her thoughts. He embraced her from behind and rested his chin on her shoulder for a moment. She let him do it, listening to the reassuring sound of his breath.

"I was thinkin' of what you said about takin' only what I'm offered," he started in a purring voice, burying his nose in her hair and inhaling deeply, "An' I was wonderin' if you would offer a bit more."

It wasn't a question as much as a statement. He started to plant small kisses on her neck all along her bruises. She closed her eyes and sighed, instinctively stretching her neck to give him more space. His right hand tightened its grip around her and pulled her closer, while his other hand wandered down her thigh, clawing at her skirt and apron. She laughed out loud as he began to nibble at her ear, realizing too late that against all odds, his hand had found its way through the countless layers of her clothes. Quickly, it moved up along her inner thigh, his nails scratching against her soft skin. Before she had time to utter a word of protest, he slipped two fingers into her, sighing heavily.

Isabel's body shuddered with pleasure, and she moaned loudly, grabbing at the edge of the table for support. It had been so long since she had been touched by a man that she had forgotten how good it felt. For a short moment, she thought of Martha feeding the remaining rabbits out in the back yard. What if she came in to find them like this? If smelling of whiskey had earned her a handful of black bruises, then what would making out with her uncle earn her? She snorted with contempt, drunk on his touch and his smell of tobacco, dust and sweat, and pressed herself against him, spreading her legs.

He released a short grim laughter and pushed her onto her elbows on top of the table, his breathing heavy and rasping. The partly dismembered rabbit and the meat cleaver were knocked aside as she landed on her stomach, and blood smeared her palms and soaked through her white blouse and apron. She knew what would come next.

She mustered all her strength and pushed him away, his fingers between her legs finally releasing her. Then, she turned around to face him and pushed herself onto the table.

"I wanna look you in the eyes, while you fuck me," she breathed raggedly, grabbing the collar of his jacket and pulling him close again roughly.

"That's my gal," he grinned, the scar on his upper lip twisting his mouth horribly.

She encircled his slim hips with her legs, pressing him closer yet, and undid his iron-studded leather belt with agile fingers. When it hit the floor, she started working greedily on the buttons of his trousers. He leaned over her and planted hard kisses on her collarbones and up her neck, occasionally biting at her already tormented skin. She pressed a bloody hand against his face, trying to guide his kisses towards her mouth.

The sound of the front door struck them as a blow, and they both stopped in mid-movement, looking at each other with wide eyes. Footsteps echoed in the entrance hall at the other end of the house; then, they set into motion down the corridor.

Butch grabbed the edge of the table, supporting himself on shaking arms, and hung his head with disappointment.

"God damn you, Matt," he whispered, exhaling loudly.

Isabel let go of her uncle's trousers and slipped swiftly under his arm. She came to a halt in the farthest corner of the room and smoothed her wrinkled skirt as best as she could, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Bella!" her father shouted, stomping towards the kitchen.

Butch turned away from the door to close his trousers a second before his brother entered the room.

"Oh, here you are," Matt said, breathless, "And you," he added in a dissatisfied tone, looking at the outlaw with narrowed eyes.

"Has the ice arrived?" he continued, his eyes darting back to his daughter.

Isabel nodded meekly.

"Right. Be a good girl and bring a new bottle o' gin to my study. We're having guests tonight."

He turned on his heels and trudged off. Isabel and Butch watched him disappear down the corridor in silence. Then, she cleared her throat and looked at her uncle, biting her lips. He picked his belt off of the floor, buckled it back on and checked his gun.

"When are you leaving?" she asked straightforwardly.

"Tomorrow morning," he said, surprised, "How did you know?"

"You wouldn't have been in such a hurry to get laid if it wasn't because you were about to leave," she answered, looking straight into his eyes.

He snorted, put on his hat and made to leave her.

"Oy, mister!" she called out sternly, pacing up to him. No-one should walk out on her like that.

He turned towards her in the doorway. She found a clean corner of her apron, spat on it and rubbed it against his face, cleaning off the blood she had smeared all over his cheeks a couple of minutes ago. Then, she put her hands around his neck and pressed a hard kiss onto his mouth. For a moment, he was taken aback, but then he kissed her back, his tongue tasting bitter in her mouth. She watched his lips curl into a nasty smirk as she pulled away from him, and the sight made her smile, too.

"Now, bugger off, will ya?" she said dryly, turning her back on him, "I've got work to do."


	8. Chapter 8

_Usual disclaimer. Also, my heartfelt thanks to James Ensor for his nightmarish paintings and to the Star Wars universe for an awesome name ;)_

**Chapter 8**

"Here's to our little prosperous town," Francis Dahl Jr. announced loudly, lifting his glass of gin, "And may it continue to prosper!"

The three men emptied their glasses, but Isabel felt as if she had already had too much although she hadn't touched her glass at all. The walls of the room were swaying like leaves blowing in a savage autumn wind, and the flames of the gas lamps on the table erupted in a blinding light, throwing up white-glowing flames that reached the ceiling. The men didn't seem to notice.

"It will, my friend," banker Stuart Holmes said, pointing at the young entrepreneur with a fat finger. His face was flushed from the drink. "If Jenkins' idea goes according to plan, it will."

"But how?" Matt Cavendish asked, refilling their glasses, "Through Jenkins' poor little arms business? Or through your utopic visions of a railroad track, Francis? I tell you: the only way forward is through cattle trade, gentlemen."

The banker and the entrepreneur exchanged a smug look. Isabel's sight blurred for a second. It seemed as if the faces of the two men had changed into those of two monstrous creatures, and the light from the lamps added to their deformity by accentuating the shadows around their eyes and mouths. She shut her eyes tight, hoping the vision would be gone when she opened them, but when she looked at her father's guests again, their terrible faces had grown even more hideous and were now bathed in an unreal blue-green light that grew to fill the whole room.

"No, Matt," the fat banker said with a haughty smile, "There's one beast – a dangerous beast – which is much better worth trading in than cattle or arms. And Jenkins knows that well, believe me."

Isabel's father looked at them quizzically. Stuart Holmes and Francis Dahl Jr. sent each other another short glance and started to laugh maliciously, the banker in a deep snorting kind of way, the young entrepreneur with a high-pitched nasal sound. Their voices echoed off the walls and the ceiling which had now completely disappeared into the blue-green haze. The air in the room seemed suddenly thick and moist, flowing around the men and the furniture alike until Isabel could no longer distinguish anything in its cloudy denseness.

The laughter of the two men mixed to a single buzzing sound, hitting her ear more and more rhythmically as it grew in intensity. It's the sound of the insects in the field, she thought, I must have forgotten to close my window. She turned towards the sound, and there he was. Her uncle grabbed her shoulders and drew her close without a word. It was the sound of his heart she had heard. Isabel kissed him, relieved, but as she pulled away from him, the flesh on his face melted away leaving an empty skull with a silver tooth and two big hollow eye sockets. His hand moved up along her thigh as it had done in the kitchen, but when he entered her, it wasn't his warm dry fingers she could feel. Instead, it was the cold sharp edge of a knife, cutting her open from below. Isabel gasped with pain and fear and looked into the empty eyes of the grinning skull.

"It wasn't me," she moaned, trying to catch her breath, "I didn't show them. I'd never…"

Then, everything blurred and drowned in darkness.

A horse whinnied somewhere outside, and Isabel opened her eyes with a start. She lay sprawled on her bed, her nightgown and blanket wound up around her and her pillow on the ground. She must have fought with them all night. It was just a dream, no more than a foolish nightmare, she thought, looking up into the polished wooden boards of the ceiling. She rolled quickly onto her side, opened the drawer of the small cupboard next to her bed and rummaged around for a while between notebooks, pens, a leather purse and the drying remains of the rosebud Butch had given to her. She exhaled with relief. The rock was still there, hidden and safe.

The horse outside whinnied again, this time louder, and Isabel heard the sound of muffled voices, too. She disentangled herself from her blanket and jumped out of bed. The nightgown stuck to her sweaty back, so she pulled it over her head with a hasty movement and flung it onto the floor. She went to the small washing basin in the corner of her room and poured some fresh water into it from a large jug. The water felt nice and cool against her heated skin, and she closed her eyes, delighted by each handful that hit her face.

The men had talked business from the moment Stuart Holmes and Francis Dahl Jr. had entered the house till the moment they had left late at night. She had listened to them patiently but bored, sticking to the rabbit thigh on her plate and wondering whether it had been that one she had landed on, when her uncle had pushed her onto the table. There had been something in their voices, though, that had made her remember every word. An ominous tone, an ironic twitch at the corner of the mouth.

Something was amiss. Something was about to go terribly wrong…

Her father's muffled curses filled the hallway as he went to the front door and flung it open. Isabel dabbed the water off her face and chest and went to the window. It stood ajar, and a fresh morning breeze hit her face as she leaned out to have a better view. The rays of the rising sun were creeping lazily along the ground and up the hills in the horizon, and the weeds and shrubs cast their long shadows towards the west as if stretching their limbs after a long night's sleep.

There were five riders just outside the fences, but they seemed to have no intention to come into the yard. One of them was her uncle. Isabel threw the towel onto her bed, grabbed a long white petticoat and pulled it over her head. She managed to seize an old coat and throw it cross her shoulders as she flew out of her bedroom and down the stairs. The cool morning air hit her bare feet and face as she slipped around her father in the doorway and ran out into the yard. He tried to grab hold of her, but she was too fast.

"Bella!" he called out, but didn't pursue her, "Come back here, child!"

Isabel thought her heart would take flight. She must tell him. She must warn him. She must… She stopped dead in the middle of the yard. Tell him what? Warn him of what? Her father and his guests had been talking about nothing but railways and cattle trade the entire evening, and yet their conversation had left her with a horrible feeling of foreboding.

Butch and his men descended from their horses as she approached them slowly. Her uncle had replaced the short jacket he had been wearing yesterday with his long travelling coat which was now flapping lightly in the morning breeze synchronically with a large feather of an eagle in his hair. His horse nodded vigorously and scraped at the ground with a huge hoof as he threw its reins into the hands of one of his men.

"I thought you'd left," Isabel said, stopping right in front of him.

"How could I leave without sayin' goodbye to my beautiful Niece?" Butch answered, his thin lips curling in a lopsided smile.

She sighed, wishing that she could believe all his lies. Her uncle had never been fond of lengthy goodbyes. But today, there was a playful light in his cold eyes, and an air of excitement and restlessness lingered on him and his men alike. She sent the others a sideway glance. She recognized most of them from the day she had stumbled upon the gang in the fields: the old man with the long grey beard, the big Mexican, the funny looking scrawny guy.

"My boys," Butch rasped by way of introduction, following the direction of her glance. "You've met most o' them except Ray," he continued, pointing at a stoat guy with broad shoulders, "He's our gunman. We call 'im GunRay."

Ray put his short double-barrelled shotgun across his shoulders and tipped his hat, sending Isabel a curt smile. She greeted him with a nod.

"The ol' man is Barret," her uncle went on, "He's a moonshiner, used to be our scout…"

"What?!" Barret asked in a squeaking voice, squinting at Butch.

"… but now, he's deaf as a stone. Still makes the best mountain dew 'tween here an' ol' Mississippi river, though, if you ask me."

His men nodded in consent, grinning.

"The big oaf is called…"

"JE-SUS!" Jesus belched loudly, hitting his ponderous belly with a massive hand.

The outlaws erupted in a cascade of laughter, and even Isabel joined in, suddenly forgetting her worries.

"That's 'im alright," her uncle said with a sigh, "An' this creature here is Skinny. He's a damned coward, but he can suck a dick as well as any whore."

The scrawny guy pulled off his hat, leaving only a lace-trimmed, sweat-stained and rather worn bonnet on his head. His mouth split in a huge gap-toothed smile, and he looked at Isabel with a proud expression on his face. She glared at him sceptically.

"Don't worry, love," Butch said teasingly as he saw her expression, "We only use 'im when there ain't no ladies around."

"What about the boy?" she asked, looking back at him, "There used to be a boy, too."

"Yeah," Butch said, scratching his jaw with a filthy finger, "Frank, Frankie, our new scout. He died last night of a snakebite."

"With all due respect, Butch," the gunman said and cleared his throat, "he died of one o' your bullets."

"He wouldn't have lived to see another sunset anyway, Ray," her uncle answered glumly, "You know that as well as I do."

"What?!" said old Barret.

"Tomorrow would have been 'is 14th birthday," Skinny said sadly, watching his hands turn his hat absent-mindedly, "We'd all clubbed together to pay for 'is first woman. He could 'ave had a whore in ev'ry town from here to Lubbock for that money, but he had to go an' turn up 'is toes even before he could get a single lay, poor fella."

For a moment, a solemn silence fell over the gang. They all looked down and shuffled their feet.

Isabel inspected the face of her uncle. Suddenly, she wanted to scream at him and hit him and tell him to stop the insanity he called his life. She wanted to make him stay with her forever and ever. Instead, she crossed her arms and looked into his eyes.

"I've heard the rangers at Austin are hunting down the last of the outlaws there," she said matter-of-factly, "And down in Colby, Daniel Reid has taken his father's place as a ranger."

"Ha! Dan Reid, that dumb piece of shit!" her uncle laughed bitterly and spat on the ground, "He wouldn't know an outlaw if he had one right up his tight little ass."

The mood of the gang lightened, and they laughed with their leader. Isabel grabbed the collar of her uncle's coat and dragged him away from his men. She sent an anxious look over her shoulder. Her father was still watching them from the porch.

"Will you come back to me?" she asked in a low voice, slipping her hands discretely around Butch's waist inside the coat.

"But honey," he answered with a hoarse sarcasm, looking down at her through cruel half-closed eyes, "You know that my heart is all yours."

Isabel dug her fingers into his side roughly, making him wince. She'd had enough of all his bullshit.

"Listen, Butch," she said angrily, correcting the collar of his dirty shirt with shaking fingers, "You'd better come back to me, and preferably not in a wooden box. D'you hear me?"

His sarcasm faded away, and he lifted her chin with two fingers, inspecting her face. She stared into his harsh blue-grey eyes, her anger suddenly gone, and wished that she could kiss him goodbye without being watched by her father and the outlaws. As if he had read her thoughts, he took her head between his hands and pressed a hard warm kiss onto her forehead, his stubbly chin scratching against her brow. She closed her eyes and savoured every second. Then, he drew her close and pressed her head to his chest. She listened to his heartbeat, wrapping her arms around him tightly.

"I'll do my best, sweetheart," he whispered, "I'll do my very best."

She watched the gang ride off, her eyes following them until they became small dark dots against the hazy horizon. Her uncle's reassuring kiss had somehow settled her worries and brought calmness to her troubled mind. She squinted at the distant figures, watching them disappear in the desert haze, and smiled.

"Go, Butch," she whispered to herself, "Go and be what I cannot be. Go and be free."


	9. Chapter 9

_Usual disclaimer._

**Chapter 9**

The bright Texan sun was high in the sky now, bathing the garden and the distant fields in a shimmering light. The air was still hot and unmoving, the heat making it impossible to move or even to think clearly. I sent a glance towards the door, wishing that I could leave Aunt Bella behind and take refuge in the cool rooms of the sanatorium.

Perhaps I could excuse myself, when Rose came back. What took her so long anyway? It felt as if we had been sitting here waiting for her to fetch her aunt's whiskey for ages. I reached out and poured two glasses of lemonade for Bella and myself. The drink felt blessedly cold in my overheated mouth, but Aunt Bella didn't as much as touch her glass.

"Did he ever come back, your… er… uncle?" I asked eventually, feeling a wave of shame flushing in over me by the sheer thought of Bella's indecent love affair.

Against all odds, I hoped that this was the end of her story, that the ruthless outlaw Butch Cavendish had left for good this time, and that Bella had lived out the rest of her youth in the safe confines of her family. However, I knew that this couldn't possibly be the case, as was now proved by the sharp look Aunt Bella sent me.

"You're anticipating the course of the events, young man," she said strictly, wagging a thin forefinger at me, "Some moments require haste, others patience. But I guess nobody has cared to teach you the difference between the two."

I averted my eyes like a school boy receiving a hard rebuke and decided not to rush her again. Clearly, Bella perceived herself as the mistress of the situation as well as the place, and there was no point in arguing with her about her pace or conduct. All I could do was wonder whether I'd heard the most revolting details already, or whether the worst part was yet to come.

Once again, Aunt Bella closed her eyes and slipped back into silent contemplation. Her small bare feet were pushing her rocking chair gently back and forth, making the worn edge of her flower-patterned dress sway lightly. Somehow, it seemed as if her fragile body had shrunk even as we had been talking, leaving a dried-out shell of a human being in the arms of the big chair.

I found my handkerchief in the right pocket of my flaxen jacket, dabbed the sweat off my brow and upper lip and loosened my tie discretely with two fingers, sending Rose's aunt an excusing look. She had fallen into a light slumber, though, and this time a real one, snoring slightly. I let out a tortured sigh and gulped down the rest of my drink.

Even if only half of what Bella had told about her outlaw uncle was true, I blessed myself lucky that neither I nor my sweet bride had ever come across him. By Bella's account he sounded like a terrifying man you would hardly fancy to chance upon in a dark alleyway in the middle of the night. Nor in broad daylight, for that matter. It was still a mystery to me, though, why Bella didn't embellish the truth about him if she had been so infatuated by his dubious charms. Or perhaps she did, I thought, an involuntary shiver running down my spine.

I didn't notice Rose's return before she was standing right next to me. She put the bottle of whiskey on the table with an audible thump, making her aunt jump in her seat. She walked to her chair and sat down without a word. Aunt Bella blinked at her sleepily for a moment before grabbing the bottle.

"You sure took your time, child," she said with a mock grumpiness in her voice, adding a generous glob of whiskey to her lemonade.

"It wasn't under your bed, Aunt Bella," Rose answered defensively, "I had to go through all your trunks and cupboards. It was behind the Bible on top of your bookcase."

"Really?" Bella said innocently, "I must 'ave forgotten…"

She sent me the tiniest of winks indicating that she hadn't, though, and I felt another flush of embarrassment creeping up my neck. She took her glass and gulped down its content without any further ado, uncorked the bottle again and refilled her glass. Then, she poured some whiskey into Rose's glass and mine, too. I opened my mouth to protest, but she got ahead of me.

"Today's young people are so terribly pale-looking," she said, "This, however, will bring some colour to your cheeks, sweethearts."

An amused smile crept across Rose's mouth and she looked at me with one raised eyebrow as we glanced at each other. I closed my mouth again like a fish gaping for water. We lifted our glasses.

"To our loved ones," Bella announced, "By Heaven and fiery Hell, some of 'em work harder to win our love than others. And that's exactly how it should be."

I grimaced at the harsh taste of the drink, but both Bella and Rose washed it down as if it had been lemonade. The nurses returned from church half an hour later. Rose stayed true to her word and rebuked the matron for the lack of service we had received. After all, she said, her cheeks flushed from the drink all the way up to her handsome high cheekbones, Aunt Bella's guests were not as frequent as to be burdensome. After her monologue, nobody dared to mention the bottle of whiskey to her.

We took a light lunch on the veranda, followed by a short walk through the shady parts of the garden. As we returned to the shade of the building, a hot breeze swept over us from the east. Aunt Bella turned around and squinted at the open fields and the distant horizon.

"A storm is coming," she croaked in a knowing voice, "I like storms."

I didn't know what to answer. To me, the sky was as blue and the air as insufferably hot as they had been half an hour ago. But Rose seemed to agree with her aunt. She nodded at the sky, her blue eyes wide open.

"I like a good thunderstorm, too," she said conversationally with a smile, "Perhaps we should take another walk before it breaks loose."

"You just go ahead, darlin'," Bella said to her and then turned to me, "Meanwhile, your groom and I will carry on our jolly little chat."

We watched Rose as she disappeared into the greenery, pacing down the earthen path with long but slow strides. Then, we sat down again, and Bella refilled our glasses with whiskey.

"Have you ever heard about the Lone Ranger, lad?" she asked without introduction.

I told her that I had. He had been one of the last legendary Texas rangers, brave and undefeatable, known by his silver-white horse and black leather mask. He had been fighting for justice and relentlessly hunting down the desert outlaws. Every young man who had been a boy 15-20 years ago had wanted to be like him – even those growing up in Montreal where outlaws and rangers were as exotic as lions and elephants from the darkest corners of Africa. However, it was said that he – whoever he had been – had put down his mask many years ago.

"Then, you've also heard about the Silver Train Incident at Colby," Bella went on.

I nodded. That had been the first big adventure and victory of the Lone Ranger.

"Well, the silver goin' down with that damned train had been my uncle's," she said with a sigh, "And he had been very close to goin' down with it himself. Of course, I didn't know anything about it when it happened. The last news about Butch Cavendish had been that he had been captured by some rangers and was on his way to be executed. I guess you can imagine how I felt about that."

She snorted with contempt and lifted her glass to her lips.

"We didn't hear anything about his death, though, so I figured that he must have escaped. Only the Devil knows how he did it," Bella continued after having swallowed her whiskey, "D'you know for how long that son of a bitch stayed away? Ten months and two weeks. That's 317 days. And do you know how I know?"

I looked at her resignedly and shook my head.

"Because I counted every God damn one o' them."


	10. Chapter 10

_Usual disclaimer._

**Chapter 10**

It had been pouring down for three days and three nights, which was highly unusual for this time of the year. The yard in front of the house was dissolved in mud and deep pools of water, making it difficult for wagons and coaches to push up through the narrow lane and turn in front of the entrance door. The horses pulling the vehicles would be snorting with dissatisfaction, their hooves squelching as they would try to drag them off of the ground.

Isabel Cavendish was lying in her bed and staring into the darkness of the night, not quite knowing whether her eyes were open or shot. The sound of the heavy rainfall on the roof of the house was making it impossible for her to fall asleep, and she wondered if there was any point in lying here at all.

When she had been a small girl, Isabel had loved to play in the rain, especially if there had been a thunderstorm with lightning bolts illuminating the distant hills. Sometimes, she would stay outside for hours, jumping from one pool of water into the next or staying in the cathedral of the barn, just listening to the sound of the falling rain as it was amplified by the cavernous building. Her mother had wailed and wrung her hands, when she had eventually returned to the house, drenched to the skin and muddy to the knees, but she hadn't cared. Playing in the rain had been her most intensively ecstatic experience before she had started to kiss boys.

Isabel reached out and fumbled on top of the small cupboard next to her bed. She found the matches, sat up and stroke one. It crackled and hissed as it lit up a tiny patch of the room. She lit an old oil lamp, got out of bed and put on one of her mother's dressing gowns. With the lamp in her hand, she descended the stairs on tiptoes in order not to wake her father who was sleeping in the adjacent room.

The kitchen was crammed with baskets of fruit and boxes of dried herbs waiting to be stored away for the winter. With the beginning of the harvest season, there would be work enough to do for the weeks to come. Isabel found a jug of milk and a clean mug and poured herself a drink, but the sudden sound of knocking gave her a start, and she spilled half of the jug's content onto the table. She stared out into the dark corridor with scared eyes, her heart pounding in her throat. Who would come knocking at this time of the night?

Another series of knocks issued from the front door. Three hard and quick raps followed by silence. Isabel took the oil lamp with a shaking hand and walked slowly through the corridor into the entrance hall. She paused at the door and listened intently, considering if she should arm herself. The heavy rainfall outside, however, made it impossible to distinguish any other sound that might be on the other side of the door. Surely, if the person outside had bad intentions, he wouldn't come knocking on the front door, she though, relaxing somewhat.

Knock, knock, knock. The repeated rapping was persistent and insisting with a hint of desperation.

Isabel took a deep breath and unlocked the entrance door, lifting the lamp high. As the door swung open, a cool moist night breeze hit her face and made the flame of the lamp dance and sway. The ruddy glow lit up the face of the intruder, while the rest of him remained in darkness. His high cheekbones were glistening with rain, but his cheeks were more sunken than usual and covered with black and grey stubbles. His long pointy nose and the sparse beard on his chin were dripping steadily with water. So were his tangled shoulder-long hair and the broad black brim of his hat.

The stray dog had finally found his way home.

Isabel looked at him with wide disbelieving eyes, and he returned her look, his grey-blue eyes glinting coldly in the light from the oil lamp. She opened the door a bit wider and took a step back to admit him. Butch Cavendish pushed past her and paced into the entrance hall without a word. He continued into the living room, leaving a track of mud and water on the floor.

Isabel followed her uncle, lit another lamp and poured him a glass of whiskey which he shot down right away. She refilled his glass and sent him a glance from underneath a heaved eyebrow. His left arm was resting in a filthy rag of a sling which he wore around his neck, and his black clothes were drenched with water. He must have been riding through the rain all day.

While he sipped his second drink, she went upstairs and found a towel, a clean shirt and a pair of trousers that her father had grown too fat to wear. When she returned to the living room, Butch had put his hat on the table and had seated himself, staring at his drink with dejection in his eyes.

Isabel put down her bundle and kneeled in front of him with her hands on his knees. For a moment, she tried to meet his eyes, but his thoughts were miles away. She sighed resignedly and eased his muddy boots off his feet, one after the other. Then, she stood up, grabbed his right elbow and pulled him to his feet. She took the glass out of his hand, undid the sling and held his injured arm, while she took off his jacket. He winced with pain and seemed for the first time to notice her presence. She unbuttoned his wet vest and shirt slowly and pulled them off him, careful not to hurt his arm. Next, she took off his leather belt and undid his trousers. He let her disrobe him in silence, watching her every movement shamelessly.

Isabel took a step back to study her uncle's naked body. He was still a fit man for his age with a sinewy torso and fairly muscular shoulders and legs, although he had grown gaunter during the past year, his ribs and clavicles clearly visible through his pale skin. His body was nearly devoid of hair with only a sparse greying bunch growing on his chest and a thin line of black running from his navel to his crotch, where it spread out to nestle his genitals in a soft but scarce collection of black curls. His lightly downy arms and thighs were crisscrossed with old scars and a couple of newly acquired wounds and scratches, and the whole of his left side, including the injured arm, was covered in one big blackish blue bruise stretching from his ribs to the upper part of his thigh.

She took the towel and started to pat him dry, working her way systematically from the top of his head and downwards. She worked slowly and tenderly, drying off his shoulders, arms, chest and stomach. Then, she went around him and dabbed his scarred back and buttocks, planting small kisses in the wake of the towel. His skin felt cold and damp to her touch.

When she circled around to face him again, he had already grown hard. She went to her knees and dabbed his crotch dry gingerly before taking his cock between her lips. He closed his eyes and sighed with pleasure, steadying her head with one hand while pushing himself deep into her mouth. With his injured left arm, her uncle seemed less dangerous than usual, but Isabel knew that that was only an illusion. If anything, a battered and disillusioned Butch Cavendish would be even more perilous than a hale and content one. He came quickly with a loud grunting moan, his warm seed filling her mouth. She swallowed hard and wiped the corners of her mouth clean with the towel, sending him a stolen glance. Butch's expression had changed from solemn to almost blissful, and a small lop-sided smile appeared on his lips as he looked down on her and ran his fingers through her hair.

She patted his legs dry and helped him into the dry and warm clothes she had fetched for him. Just as she finished buttoning his trousers, the sound of footsteps on the stairs filled the entrance hall. A moment later, a sleepy Matt Cavendish was standing in the door of the living room.

"You?!" he asked with a throaty voice, squinting at his baby brother.

"Me," Butch answered, sending him a grim smile.

"I thought you were dead," Matt said, correcting the brown dressing gown he wore over his long white nightshirt with uneasy fingers, "You were taken by the rangers. They were about to hang you…"

Butch gulped down the rest of his drink and waved the empty glass dismissively at Matt.

"Well, they didn't succeed, did they?"

Isabel turned around to hide her amusement. No-one could be as subtly sarcastic as Butch. She went to the old bureau in the corner of the room and found a length of bleached linen. With a forceful jerk, she tore off a piece for a new sling. Her uncle studied her face, not entirely unkindly, while she eased the cloth around his arm and bound it behind his neck.

"But how…?" Matt continued, then sighed, "Never mind. Bella, be kind and pour us a drink."

She did as she was bid. The two men sat down and looked at each other.

"Is Jenkins still around?" Butch asked his brother, running his fingers lightly over Isabel's wrist and hand as he took the refilled glass, "I've got a score to settle with 'im."

"What has he done?" Matt gulped, suddenly wide awake.

"He thought he could steal from a thief. But regrettably for 'im, my silver went to Hell, and so did one o' his men while tellin' me the truth about 'im."

Butch's expression darkened again by the thought of his lost riches, and the muscles of his jaw tightened as he gnashed his teeth.

"He ain't gonna be so proud when I see 'is God damn face again," he grunted and threw the content of the glass into his mouth.

"You're not talking about the train-load of silver that fell into the river at Colby, are you?" Matt asked, his eyes widening.

Butch swallowed his drink and nodded.

"Cole died, and many o' my boys," he said and looked up at Isabel, "Including Ray and Jesus. All killed by this weakling people call the Lone Ranger; a creature so gutless he doesn't even dare to show that ugly face o' his."

He leaned back and exhaled, the scar on his upper lip twitching with anger. He ran his tongue over his silver tooth before continuing.

"It happened right in front o' my eyes. But I was too damn busy tryin' to save my skin on a runaway train car before it collided with another. Fortunately, that idiot Captain Jay Fuller was standin' in the door of the other car."

"What happened?" Matt asked, breathless, forgetting all about his whiskey.

Butch sighed and looked searchingly into his empty glass: "The cars collided and were blown to smithereens. I jumped at Fuller. He died – I lived. And got this," he added, pointing at his injured left side.

A tense silence fell over the small family group. Isabel looked at the floor, thinking about the two dead outlaws she had come to know fleetingly. Suddenly, she felt endlessly tired.

"Right," she sighed eventually, looking at her uncle with determination, "Jenkins will have to wait. I'm gonna prepare the guest room, 'cause you're not goin' anywhere tonight, Butch."


	11. Chapter 11

_Usual disclaimer._

**Chapter 11**

A pigeon took flight noisily from among the roses of widowed Mrs Lawrence, fluttered eagerly to the height of her rooftop, and then spread its wings for a soundless glide down the other side of the house. As it took off, it set a group of sparrows scurrying with fear underneath one of the lush bushes.

Isabel Cavendish crossed the street with determined steps, lifting her skirt slightly off the muddy ground and cursing quietly as her boots sank ankle-deep into the half-dry muck. It took her four long strides to reach the porch of the nearest house. From there, she would be able to walk the rest of the way following the covered decks of the houses and shops, only occasionally crossing the streets. She stopped for a moment to scrape off the thick layer of mud under her soles and smoothed the front of her skirt with a hasty movement. I'm looking ridiculous, she thought with irritation, brushing a lock of hair out of her eyes. Isabel didn't feel very fit for paying a visit, but she had decided to do it, and now she would carry it through.

It had stopped raining the day after her uncle had returned from his adventures. That had been eight days ago, but the dirt streets of the town and the soil in the surrounding fields were still saturated with water. The delay of the harvest made the farmers look nervously up into the lead-coloured sky, but they could do nothing but wait for the grain to dry. Nobody – except for Mrs Lawrence's roses – seemed to appreciate the unusual weather.

Isabel knocked forcefully on the front door, making the small stained glass window tinkle in its wooden frame. The thought of Butch Cavendish made her angry all over again. Her uncle had been cold, injured and miserable the night he had come home, but still, when she had got up the next morning, he had been gone. She had checked the tracks of his horse, cursing his headstrong ways. They had not led to the town, but towards the hills in the west.

She took a step back and looked at the house. The residence of William Jenkins and his wife was one of the largest houses in town and the only one built of burned bricks. It had been built many years before the birth of Isabel, when Mrs Jenkins had still been Mrs Wagner, married to the wealthy banker Horace Wagner. Five years after Mr Wagner's death, a young and ambitious William Jenkins had moved to town to set up his arms trade company and had married the sorrowful widow. In spite of Jenkins being at least 20 years younger than his wife, their marriage had left Maude Jenkins disillusioned and disappointed. The wealth which had been accumulated by late Mr Wagner had all been channelled into Jenkins' company, but only with little profit. Now, the only legacy left by the Wagner era was the huge brick house.

Isabel knocked again, wondering what she was supposed to say to William Jenkins. 'Good day, sir. I've come to hear the story about how and why you tried to backstab my uncle' didn't seem like a very good option. Nor did 'I want to deliver you into his hands myself, you scum'.

She was about to knock for the third time when the door was opened by an old black servant.

"I've come to see Mr Jenkins," Isabel said, smiling adorably. She would do anything to make the arms dealer tell her the truth. And afterwards, she would do anything to make him beg for his life.

"I'm sorry, Miss Isabel, but Mr Jenkins ain't home," the servant said, looking at her with sad eyes, "But Mrs Jenkins will surely be thrilled by your visit."

The information left her with a feeling of worry, but she followed the servant into the living room nonetheless, where she was left to wait for the mistress of the house. She looked around in the room which was tastelessly crammed with heavy mahogany furniture, lush oriental carpets, crimson velvet curtains and fluffy cushions. It hadn't changed a bit since the last time she had been here.

When she had been five years old, her mother had brought her along to one of the tea parties Maude Wagner had been so fond of hosting for the ladies of the town. She had been wearing a lace bonnet and a white lace-trimmed dress with a huge bow on its back, and she had hated it. For fun, the ladies had asked her what she wanted to do when she grew up. "I wanna be a soldier," she had answered promptly, thinking about the freedom of her uncle. The ladies had looked amusedly chocked, but the expression on her mother's face had been an indescribable mixture of disgust and horror. Her slap had come just as promptly as Isabel's answer, her hand leaving a stinging red mark on her soft round cheek. That had been the only occasion her usually gentle mother had ever hit her. Also, it had been Isabel's last participation at a tea party, which had suited her well.

"Ah, Miss Cavendish!"

The high-pitched voice of Mrs Jenkins tore Isabel away from her memories, and she turned around to face her hostess with a smile. Maude Jenkins was a corpulent woman with a round and ruddy face, an exceedingly protuberant nose and a chock of grey-blonde hair. Her sleepy blue eyes, which were usually half-hidden underneath a pair of heavy eyelids, were wide open by the prospect of a guest she could spend the day gossiping with.

"Mrs Jenkins," Isabel purred amiably, stretching her hand out towards the old woman, "How nice of you to see me. Though I've hoped to meet your kind husband, too."

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," Mrs Jenkins said with a small excusing sigh, taking Isabel's hand and patting it gently, "I'm afraid my William doesn't have much time for the company of ladies like us these days."

"Really?" Isabel asked, heaving her eyebrows with interest, "How come?"

The old woman made a gesture towards one of the over-decorated sofas, and they sat down.

"Haven't you heard?" she asked wide-eyed, encouraged by Isabel's question, "One week ago, he went down to Austin to do some business. He came back two days ago with his good friend Charles Davis who's a sheriff down there – and some o' _his_ friends. Can you believe it? All those fine gentlemen staying in our humble house?"

"The sheriff of Austin?" Isabel asked, a horrible premonition creeping slowly in on her.

"Yes," Maude Jenkins continued eagerly, "And today, they all rode out to the Horns. For a bit of hunting, William said. But dear, you look so pale. Are you alright?"

Isabel sat staring at the other woman, her heart threatening to jump right out of her chest.

"Hunting…?" she breathed and jumped to her feet, her eyes wide with horror, "When did they leave, Mrs Jenkins?"

"Why, about two hours ago," the old woman answered, now rather perplexed, "You're not going already, love, are you?"

But Isabel didn't take time to excuse herself. She spun around, nearly knocking over the old servant bringing in a tray with two fine china cups and a pot of steaming tea. She ran as fast as she could, panting as she strived through the mud in the streets and the road leading homewards. She ran without stopping to think or to sense. She knew that she was racing against time itself. As she burst through the entrance door, the old clock in the living room stroke 11. Soon it would be noon.

Martha stuck her round brown face through the kitchen door and called down the corridor: "Home so soon, Miss Bella?"

"Get Johnny to saddle my horse," Isabel shouted, throwing off her clothes as she raced up the stairs.

"But…"

"NOW!"

Quickly, she put on her woollen working trousers, a clean shirt and vest, her riding boots and a long worn leather coat. Then, she ran downstairs to her father's study, chose the shortest shotgun from his collection and filled a saddlebag with ammunition, her teeth clenched with anger and fear. How could she have been so stupid?! How could she have been so blind?!

Within five minutes, she was riding her pale mare across the muddy fields towards the distant western hills at a breathless gallop. She paused two miles from where the hills rose out of the surrounding landscape and looked up. The Bull's Horns were two dusty valleys divided by a round steep-sided hill called the Bull's Head. They ran parallel on either side of the Head, then, they curved inward until they met in a narrow canyon on the far side of the hill. Isabel looked down and studied the ground for a moment. Everything was just the way she had feared it to be. There had been two groups of riders – one heading towards the left Horn, the other – after a pause – heading towards the right. She squinted at the Head again. If she could find a path up the steep side, she might just be able to get ahead of them.

The dusty sand-filled wind of the hills hit her face, as she reached the top of the Head, panting and sweating. The clouds had shed all their rain in the fields of the lowlands, leaving nothing for these high regions; the Head and the Horns were as dry as ever. Isabel drove her foaming horse forward cautiously and halted behind a protruding rock at the very edge of the hill. From here, she could look down into both Horns.

The sight made her heart skip a beat. In the left-hand Horn, six men and their horses were camped around the remains of a bonfire. One of them was her outlaw uncle. In the right Horn, seven riders were moving slowly and noiselessly towards the narrow meeting point of the two valleys. From there, they would be able to attack the gang, while they themselves would remain protected by the rocky bend of the canyon.

Isabel loaded her shotgun with shaking hands, as one of the Austin rangers detached himself from the group and rode forward to spy on the outlaws. She raised her weapon, aimed at the man and pulled the trigger without thinking. The loud bang of her gun and the subsequent thud of the dead man hitting the ground made Hell break loose. Suddenly, everything happened at once. The gang of outlaws jumped to their feet, drawing their guns. The horses of the rangers whinnied with fear as they were urged forward; their presence had been revealed, and they had no other option than to charge.

Swiftly, Isabel guided her mare down the hillside into the heart of the inferno, praying that it wouldn't break a leg on the steep and rocky path. She reloaded her gun with her heart in her throat, looking around. One of the outlaws had already fallen, and several of the rangers. And there, in the farthest corner, still half-concealed by a wall of rock, was William Jenkins on his umber stallion. He lifted his gun and aimed at Butch Cavendish. Isabel drew a deep breath, feeling the blood pumping through her veins, and shot. There was an audible crash of broken bones as the huge body of Jenkins' horse landed on its master, burying half of him under its dead weight. Isabel spun around just in time to see the last ranger gallop at full speed up behind an outlaw with a once-white bonnet on his head.

"Skinny! Behind you…!" she screamed, but it was too late.

A bullet from Butch's gun had taken the ranger off his horse, before Isabel could finish her sentence. Then, everything was silent.

Her head was spinning, and her legs were shaking as she dismounted her anxious horse. The outlaws were already stripping the dead of their most valuable possessions. Butch cast Isabel a distant glance, turned on his heels and approached Jenkins. He prodded him roughly in the ribs with the toe of a pointy boot and pushed his hat further up his forehead for a better view. Slowly, Jenkins came round, breathing shallowly. When he saw Butch, his first impulse was to flee, but the pain from his fractured legs trapped under his dead horse made him cringe and scream.

"He didn't want your silver," Isabel said shakily, pacing up behind Butch, "Well, maybe he did. But he wanted you to know so that you would go chasing him. Then, he would make the rangers of Austin get you, and he would collect the ransom."

"Is that true?" Butch growled softly, looking down at Jenkins, "A risky game to play, if you ask me."

Jenkins looked back at him and whimpered.

"Go home, Niece," Butch continued, still gazing at the arms dealer, "Jenkins an' I'll have a little talk now."

"No," Isabel answered defiantly, feeling a heat of anger rush through her again.

"What?" Her uncle turned around and looked at her with an equally puzzled and dangerous expression.

"I said no. I've let you ride out on your own before, Bartholomew Cavendish, but I'm not gonna make that mistake again."

The other outlaws were drawn closer by the sound of the beginning argument. Skinny was fidgeting his hat nervously, while old Barret strained to hear the words, screwing up his face. Further behind, a monstrously muscular blonde-haired giant and a small mulatto were looking at Isabel with unyielding eyes. She didn't know them.

"Do as I tell ya," Butch retorted sternly, "After all, I'm…"

"A jerk? A selfish asshole?" she suggested helpfully.

"… your uncle. Listen to me…"

"No, you listen to me, you creep! D'you think I had a ball, while you were out tryin' to get yourself killed for a handful o' silver? D'you think I had a good time? D'you think I didn't miss you?"

"Well, I certainly missed your beautiful face," he said, a sarcastic smile appearing on his lips.

"Fuck you!" she spat, adrenaline still pumping through her body.

"An' your sweet voice, too."

"And now, you want me to leave you an' go back to that godforsaken place. Is that it?" she continued, waving her gun in the direction of the town. Her movement made the other outlaws duck and dodge.

"Are you aware of what you're asking of me, Butch?" she finished meekly, suddenly all her combative spirit leaving her.

The smile on Butch's lips was gone as fast as it had come. He looked contemplatively at his dusty riding boots. The silence in the valley was only broken by the quiet whimper of Jenkins still lying under his horse. Then, Butch looked up at Isabel again, his face set in determined folds.

"You can be our new scout," he said, "and you can carry my handkerchiefs. Give 'em to her," he added dryly, gesturing at Skinny, but the scrawny outlaw didn't move.

"D-d'you think…? Is that…?" Skinny stammered, his face turning slowly the shade of pale, "I mean… She's a…"

"A what? A lady?" Butch interrupted him angrily, his patience growing thin, "She's less a lady than you are. She's my niece, remember? My blood. Now, give 'er those damned 'kerchiefs before I shoot you!"

Skinny pushed a bunch of freshly pressed white handkerchiefs with lace-trimmed seams into Isabel's sweaty hands, his eyes large with fear. She looked at him uncomprehendingly, but was smart enough to keep her mouth shot. She and Skinny had already pushed Butch's patience to its limits and beyond.

Her uncle turned back to the snivelling arms dealer lying on the ground.

"Now, Mr Jenkins," he rasped, squatting down next to him and pulling a long knife from the leg of his right boot, "We really need to talk this over, 'cause you see: If you take somethin' from me, I'll take somethin' from you."


	12. Chapter 12

_Usual disclaimer. Silver City is mentioned at the courtesy of Candy (Blutstropfen on this site). You rock, girl!  
_

**Chapter 12**

"He ate Jenkins' heart?" I gulped, patting my brow gingerly with a napkin, "And he used the handkerchiefs to wipe the b-b-b-blood off his hands?"

Bella nodded solemnly to indicate that I had got it right. I gaped at her from the edge of my chair with wide eyes, trying to wrap my head around this beast she called her uncle and lover without as much as blinking. My mouth was dry, but I dared not drink my lemonade lest I should throw it all up again. I could feel my lunch turn in my stomach by the sheer thought of the bloody raw meatiness of a human heart.

"That was the first time he took me – right there on the ground," she went on, undeterred, "I had a burnin' desire for him after our little failed affair on the kitchen table a year earlier, but I'd never imagined our first time to be next to the sad remains of Jenkins and with the whole gang lookin' on. As it was, I just had to stand it through – or rather kneel it through – with my pants down an' my teeth clenched. He liked a good fuck after 'is kills, you see."

I blinked in silence, feeling the tickle of a drop of sweat running from my temple down to my jaw. Bella sighed and narrowed her dark eyes.

"I was still lyin' in the dirt, tryin' to pull myself together, when he rode up to me followed by his men on their horses. "Are you comin' or what?" he asked coldly, looking down at me with those merciless eyes o' his. That son of a bitch! If I'd had the strength, I would 'ave killed him on the spot. Nobody could make me feel so appreciated – or so used – as Butch Cavendish."

"But I got my revenge the very same night," Bella finished with a chuckle, her eyes suddenly afire with mirth, "I'm afraid we kept the whole gang awake with our sighs an' moans. Except for old Barret, of course; he really was as deaf as a stone, bless him."

Once again, the story of the middle-aged woman left me speechless. I turned my head and looked out over the distant fields, not daring to look into her eyes. The fresh summer breeze had gained in strength while Aunt Bella had been talking and had driven together a group of lead-coloured clouds along the horizon like a sheepdog would drive together a flock of sheep. Slowly, the clouds were mounting on top of each other and drifting towards the sanatorium and the town on its other side. Soon, it would start to rain.

Rose emerged from among the greenery in the far end of the garden, her hair released to cascade down her back. A couple of black locks fell forward over her soft round shoulders to frame her pretty face. She lifted her skirt and danced with playful steps along the path towards the small pond. As she bent down to spy on the shoal of goldfish swimming in the water, I got a full view of her fine smooth forehead, her straight and somewhat pointy nose and her marked cheekbones. I let out a small sigh, remembering the day I had seen her for the first time in the hall of my father's bank. She had been smiling to herself contemplatively, not sensing the buzz of people around her, and I had found myself utterly and helplessly in love with her. Still, my heart beat a bit faster whenever I saw her like this, lost in her own little world of imagination.

Bella shifted in her chair and cleared her throat, demanding my attention anew.

"They took to me kindly, all of 'em," she said, "God keep me from sayin' anything bad about those boys, though each o' them sure had 'is peculiarities. They all knew that I had saved their skins back in the Horns, even Butch. But he never mentioned it with a single word."

"They didn't…? I mean, they never touched you…?" I asked, thinking about all the horrible stories of crazed outlaws raping helpless maidens.

"No," Bella answered firmly, "I belonged to Butch. I guess he had made that clear from the very beginning, though he never put it into words. His men were his, too, but in a different way. Some o' them looked up to him, most o' them feared him, but all o' them trusted him with their lives. They had no other choice. Bein' an outlaw back then meant that you would either trust your leader or you would die faster than a mouse in a trap. Of course, the thing about ridin' with Butch Cavendish was that you could never count on his crazy ways. What you _could_ count on, though, was to be shot if you didn't do as you were told."

"What a dreadful life…" I said, unable to contain my feelings any longer.

"It was an honest life," Bella said sharply, cutting me off, "Lived by honest men. I'm not sayin' that they were innocent as new-born lambs, mind you. But they all knew the worth o' their words an' their actions. Take ol' Barret, for instance: He had spent much time in jail for bein' a moonshiner without ever complaining, but when they tried to hang him for a murder he hadn't committed, he killed one o' the guards and escaped. "Now at least, they've got somethin' to hang me for," he used to say."

Rose's aunt gazed thoughtfully into thin air for a moment before continuing.

"Barret was like a granddad to me, to all of us really. He taught me how to brew that fine mountain dew o' his, and he taught me how to drink without ever gettin' drunk. Sometimes, he would feel a bit low. Then, he would go out into the wild alone with a bottle and not return till the next morning. But most o' the time, he was as jolly as a man o' 68 can be.

The mulatto was called Vincent. He was born an' raised in New Orleans, and he could cook the best beans you can imagine. He had a strong belief in the saints, though, and had this little pouch with all kinds o' relics which he had to recite some verses over every morning before settin' out. Butch detested his mumbo-jumbo, I could see that in his eyes, but he tolerated it, 'cause Vince was almost as good a gunman as Ray had been.

The big blonde ox was Olaf Jensen, but we only called him Jensen. He had been a sailor on board one o' the ships sailin' between Virgin Islands an' Scandinavia until the day he had killed 'is captain an' raped 'is daughter. He said it had all been because of the dried mushrooms he used to eat. He was fillin' the whole gang with lies about some scholars in his home country who had read in some ol' legends called sagas that their Scandinavian ancestors used to eat these mushrooms to make them fiercer in battle. I never believed a word of it. One day, he set out to prove his word and took a handful of those damned things before goin' on a rabbit hunt. Instead of makin' him fierce, though, the mushrooms made him soft-hearted. I tell you, he cried like a baby over each o' the animals he had killed, and we laughed until we cried, too."

Bella let out a bright laughter at the memory of Jensen's failed experiment.

"We never heard anything about those bloody mushrooms again, I can assure you. But the rabbits were nice an' juicy nonetheless."

She nodded, slowly turning serious again. She folded her hands in her lap and looked me straight in the eyes.

"And then there was Skinny, of course. He was like a little brother to me although he was my senior by several years. In spite of bein' as ruthless as any o' the others, there was somethin' sweet an' innocent about 'is sky-blue eyes, big gap-toothed mouth an' stiff flaxen hair. We would tell each other all our secrets, swim naked in the river and play drinking games until we fell over. Whenever Butch was out during the night, I would cuddle up with Skinny for warmth instead. I guess he was the childhood friend I've never had."

Bella fell silent and stared out into the garden with sorrowful eyes, her grey-streaked hair blowing around her face in a sudden gust of wind. Then she smiled and looked at me again.

"Those months were the best I've ever had. They were the summer o' my life. We held up more coaches an' trains than I cared to count, fillin' our pockets an' saddlebags with shining gold and silver coins. We were involved in gunfights and drunken late-night saloon fights aplenty. Once, we even had to fight a band of Comanche warriors 'cause we had trespassed the boundaries o' their holy land. It was sheer luck that we escaped alive though they took half of Vince's left ear, an' I took a bullet in my upper arm. And then we had our little trip to Silver City, too. Have you ever heard o' Silver City, lad?"

I shook my head.

"Ah, that was a fine city! It was the place where miners, cowboys and outlaws alike would come to spend their hard-earned money at the gambling tables and in the beds of the finest whores of the country. A city livin' off of the greed of men. When we arrived, I decided it was time for me to have some fun, so I dressed up as a whore in the evenings and lured some of the wealthiest bastards out into the narrow alleys, tellin' them how I would make them come. But before they saw as much as an ankle, I whacked them unconscious an' took their wallets."

"You were never caught?" I asked, shocked by Bella's actions.

"Would you ever tell anyone if you'd been taken 'round back an' knocked out by a woman? Besides, they would 'ave been lookin' for a painted whore, not a girl in men's clothes. I tell you, I earned money faster than Butch an' his boys could spend them on the whores from the Satin Saddle – though those were the most expensive. We lived like kings an' queens for a whole week."

"But surely your family must have been out looking for you?" I asked with a distraught voice, suddenly remembering the way Bella had left her home, "Your father and brothers… They must have worried themselves sick for you."

Bella's expression darkened as if I had reminded her of something horrible that she would sooner have forgotten.

"My family was Butch an' Skinny," she answered reprovingly, "My family was Jensen, Vince an' ol' Barret. I had chosen them, and they had chosen me. But yes," she added with a resigned sigh, "My father soon figured out the state of affairs. He was a slow man, but he wasn't stupid. An' when the corpses of Jenkins an' the Austin rangers were found, there was no longer any doubt about who stood behind the murders and my disappearance. Two weeks later, the rest o' the rangers from Austin set out on our track, and my brother Matt called in the Houston sheriff an' his men. We found out about the chase while we were in Silver City and took to the hills as fast as we could."

Aunt Bella hung her head, her eyebrows contracted and her face as pale as ever. The silence was only broken by the wind from the approaching storm in the trees of the garden. Then, she lifted her head and looked at me with sad eyes.

"You see, we didn't know it at the time, but the death of Jenkins was really the beginning of the end."


	13. Chapter 13

_Ususal disclaimer._

**Chapter 13**

Isabel lay down on her belly and stretched her limbs, exhaling with satisfaction. The smell of fresh soft hay and sweaty bodies filled her nostrils. Somewhere outside, a blackbird heralded the beginning of a new day, and the hazy rays of the morning sun were already shining through the holes and cracks of the old ramshackle barn. Below, the sleepy voice of Skinny asked Barret how many eggs he wanted for breakfast.

"What?!" old Barret asked, making Skinny repeat his question, now in a slightly annoyed tone.

Two days ago, the gang had taken refuge in the hills ten miles outside Silver City, setting up their camp in an old barn which was only occasionally visited by the local farmers. The hayloft made an excellent sleeping place, while the horses and the cooking fire were sheltered from rain and wind on the ground level. The surrounding hills were rich in rabbits and fowls, and a small spring in the neighbouring valley supplied them with fresh water.

She turned onto her back and looked up into the dried-out wooden structure of the roof, feeling completely happy.

Butch tumbled down next to her, panting. He lay on his back with closed eyes, while he tried to catch his breath. Unlike many other men, Isabel's uncle was a noisy lover, but a silent sleeper. He was the only one in the gang who didn't snore, and sometimes in the middle of the night, she would wake up with a start just to check if he was still alive and breathing.

"You're gettin' too old for these games," she said teasingly, sending him a mocking side-way glance.

Sometimes, they would make love tenderly, caressing and kissing each other for hours. Sometimes, he would fuck her black and blue, making her cry out in agony and leaving red bite marks all over her body. Sometimes when she felt blue, he would use his tongue to make her laugh and scream with pleasure. And sometimes, like today, he would take her as he would take a boy.

Once, she had asked him where he had got a taste for making love that way, not really expecting any answer. To her surprise, though, he had told her about the first time, he and his men had held up a coach on the dirt road between Midland and Hobbs. There had been an old couple, a young man and two siblings in their teens, a girl and a boy, travelling without their parents. To the frustration of Butch, they hadn't found much of value but for a couple of coins and a handful of silver jewellery. "Jesus took the gal, while I took 'er brother," he had told her, "He was pretty, lookin' just like a gal with 'is big blue eyes an' blonde curls. Sadly, I had to put 'im down, 'cause he was upsettin' all the other travellers with 'is screams. 'Is sister was smarter. She never complained, so we let 'er live."

He dug his fingers into the dry hay, making it rustle quietly.

"Shut up an' kiss me," he breathed, not even bothering to open his eyes to look at her.

Isabel laughed and moved to sit astride him. She ran her fingers through his greasy black hair and studied his face until he opened his eyes. He looked up at her, his irises shining grey-blue and bright. His forehead crammed with wrinkles as he heaved his eyebrows, and a flat ray of sunlight reflected off his silver tooth as his scarred lips parted in a wicked smile. She kissed his forehead lightly and ran the tip of her nose down the bridge of his. He closed his eyes again, expecting her to kiss him on the mouth this time. Instead of kissing him, though, she bit his lower lip and rolled off him with an amused laughter.

"Ouch!" he exclaimed more with surprise than with pain, pursuing her closely.

They wrestled playfully for a while, their naked bodies entwined and sweaty.

"Tell me the story o' my birth," Isabel said suddenly.

"You've heard it a thousand times already," Butch answered, pressing his mouth against her neck.

His sparse beard scratched and tickled her soft skin, making her laugh again.

"I know," she said, pushing him away, "But I wanna hear it again."

"Alright," he growled, rolling onto his side, "It was a cold October night. A tempest had come in from the west…"

"A desert storm!" she cut in abruptly, correcting him.

As a child, Isabel had been told many stories by her mother of princes and princesses, dragons and evil wizards, but her favourite story had always been the one about her own birth. Her parents had never talked about it, but her uncle had told her the story willingly, saying that the stories of real life were worth much more than those of the fairytales. She had made him tell it over and over again, and always in the same words, until she knew it by heart.

"Right," Butch sighed, pressing a finger against the newly healed gunshot wound on her arm, "A desert storm had come in from the west, fillin' the air with grit. You couldn't see beyond the tip o' your nose."

He touched her nose the way he used to do when she was a child, making her smile. Then, he cupped one of her small breasts in his hand and let his callused thumb play gently with her soft dark nipple.

"I'd just got the draft from the army an' was about to part the next day, but it was impossible to travel. I had to stay put an' wait for the winds to settle. Your mama was as big an' round as a barrel o' beer, an' she went into labour just as the storm arrived. For 27 hours, 'er screams competed with the savage howl of the wind outside. I emptied a bottle o' rum, while your papa walked around like a caged animal, wringin' 'is hands. He would've sent for the doctor if the weather had allowed it, but with the storm ragin', your mama had to make it through with only a couple o' servant gals by 'er side. Afterwards, your papa used to say it was a miracle she had survived at all. You were born in blood an' pain an' darkness sometime in the early mornin' hours. Your papa's face turned grey, when he saw you were a gal, but I saw right away that you were a real Cavendish. When I took you into my arms, your mama started to weep. 'Cause you see: she realized the very same moment that she had already lost you to me."

Isabel said the last sentence along with her uncle and smiled. She drew him closer and kissed him passionately, running her fingers through his greying whiskers.

"But there's more," he said quietly, pulling away from her.

"More?" she asked, confused.

Isabel gazed at him quizzically, trying to understand what he was saying. As far back as she could remember, she had only been told this one story about her early life. The same words and the same sentences repeated a countless number of times. No more, no less.

Butch sent her a slightly tortured look before he went on.

"It happened at their wedding. I was drunk on liquor an' the fire in my blood, an' your mother was young an' beautiful. I don't know how, but I ended up encounterin' her alone in the darkness behind the house."

Isabel knitted her eyebrows, wondering where Butch's story was going. He averted his eyes, the expression on his face turning hard and grim.

"I don't remember much but the sound o' music an' laughter from the hall. An' the tears runnin' down 'er face as I raped her. She cried the rest o' the evening, but everyone thought it was because it was her wedding day. Nobody knew nothin', not even Matt. It was her shame, an' she bore it alone for the rest o' her life. Nine months an' 12 days later, she gave birth to you…"

Butch swallowed hard and breathed deeply, unable to continue.

Isabel stared at him in silence. Slowly, the meaning of his words started to sink in, and she remembered all the small things she thought that she had forgotten. Her mother's tears, when Butch had taken her into his arms as a baby; the darkness in her mother's eyes, whenever Isabel had mentioned her uncle; her fit of rage, when she had discovered them at their game of poker; her suicide letter… For the last six years of her life, Isabel's mother had been convinced that Butch was the real father of her daughter.

A sudden wave of nausea filled her from belly to throat, almost making her choke. She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling dizzy and sick. Then, she opened them again, looking straight at her outlaw uncle.

"Are you…? Am I your…?" she whispered almost inaudibly, her voice filled with dread and despair.

"I don't know, sweetheart," he whispered back simply, "I don't know."

She searched his eyes for their usual spark of mocking insanity, but they were dead, cold and expressionless, and she knew that for once, he was entirely honest, humbled and unprotected.

He turned his back on her without another word.

Isabel stared at him for a while – the line of his spine arching against the fine sweat-glistening skin, the ribcage as it widened with every breath, his black hair streaked with greying locks. Who was this man? Was he her uncle? Was he her father or her lover? Or was he just a ruthless outlaw with a soul as black as a bottomless pit who had just happened to cross her path? She no longer knew, and frankly, she no longer cared.

She swallowed, willing the nausea in her stomach to settle, and touched his naked shoulder with trembling fingers, expecting him to shrug her off. But he didn't move, so she put her arm around him and dug her nose into his hair, feeling her strength return with every passing second.

"You're my man," she told him, her voice surprisingly strong and confident, "You've always been, and you'll always be. An' nothin' can ever change that."

Finally, he turned around to face her again. The bright light in his eyes made her realize that what she had said was the only truth any of them would ever know with certainty. She smiled and kissed him, rolling around with him on top of her.

"My heart is yours, baby gal," Butch said, his face alive again with passion, "An' every other damn part o' me, too."

She laughed and gave his slim hips a hard squeeze with her thighs, feeling the muscles of his loins tighten as he pushed himself into her. She dug her nails into his skin, making him grunt, moan and wince. He came within ten minutes, exhausted and sweaty again as he rolled onto his back.

The smell of smoke, bacon and fried eggs rose up through the rafters of the barn, making Isabel's stomach rumble with hunger. She stood up and tried to sort out the heap of clothes they had thrown on the floor the previous night.

"Get up an' get dressed, you lazy bastard," she said with a gently mocking voice, buckling on her trousers and starting down the wonky ladder with her boots under her arm, "There's food, an' I'm starvin'."


End file.
